


A Truth Universally Acknowledged

by EvanHart



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Courtship, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Fluff, I know, I'm Sorry, Idiots in Love, It's not a lot but I thought I should tag it just in case, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, Pining, Slow Burn, Sort Of, another AU, another case of I saw this once somewhere and now I physically cannot rest until I've written it, pride and prejudice au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 108,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23619976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvanHart/pseuds/EvanHart
Summary: "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a spouse.”Featuring a surly Geralt, a feisty Jaskier, and a group of women who can see the chemistry even if the two idiots can't.Pride and Prejudice AU
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 328
Kudos: 699
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *DISCLAIMER*
> 
> Before we get started, I’d just like to say that I own none of these characters or the work that this AU is based on. Pride & Prejudice was created by Jane Austen, and The Witcher by Andrzej Sapkowski. I do not claim any ownership over them or the books, TV series, movies, or games; nor the world of Pride & Prejudice or The Witcher. This is purely creative and not for profit.
> 
> Okay, with that out of the way - let’s begin!

“Well?” the woman asks, glancing over at her companion. “What do you think?”

The man only hums, sitting astride his horse and looking towards the great house the woman is gesturing at.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s a fair prospect!”

“Pretty enough,” the man responds, his gaze sweeping over the landscape.

“Oh, I know it’s nothing to Kaer Morhen,” the woman jibes, sending the man a smirk when he glares her way. “I know, I know. But I must settle somewhere! I’ll take it with or without your approval.”

“I’ve no doubt you will,” the man says easily, flicking his hair over his shoulder. “You’ll find the society something horrid.”

The woman laughs. “Country manners?” Her purple eyes sparkle with mischief. “I think they’re charming. I was raised right here, in the country, you know.”

Her companion raises an eyebrow. “I thought your father tried to sell you.”

“All in the past.” The woman flaps a hand at him. “He’s no longer in the picture. So?” She leans forward eagerly, but her smile is sharp. “If I take it – the man who currently owns it is a complete savage, I’ll have you know – will you stay a while?”

The man lets out a put-upon sigh, one that’s merely for show. “I suppose,” he grumbles at last, and receives a bright grin for his efforts.

“Wonderful,” the woman nods once. “I shall close with the attorney directly. And by ‘close with’, I mean – “

“Charm him into doing your bidding, I know,” the man recites, clearly a well-known verse. “Alright then.”

“Your enthusiasm never fails to amaze me, Geralt,” the woman quips, nudging her horse forward into a gallop.

He stays where he is a moment, looking to the heavens as if for some sort of divine guidance, before urging his own mount to follow in his companion’s wake.

* * *

Jaskier had been content to simply go home after the temple gathering, but his mother was always keen to somehow make a scene, even if it was only for their family.

“Mr. Pankratz!” she screeches, hurtling past her children to the front of the little group. Triss catches Jaskier’s eye and he shrugs at her, falling into step beside one another as they endure what’s likely to be another long-winded bit of gossip.

“I bet it has to do with those two strange riders you saw on your walk a few days ago,” Triss whispers conspiratorially, shaking her head a little as Shani and Priscilla laugh overly loudly behind them. “Visitors always make the tongues wag.”

“Mr. Pankratz!” comes the screech again. “Vengerburg Park is let at last!”

The man himself looks over curiously. “I thought it was let.”

“Oh, it was, to that vile old man,” his wife responds coolly. “But never you mind that. Do you not want to know who has taken it?”

“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”

“Why, then, it is taken by a young woman of large fortune from the north! A single woman of large fortune, my dear!” Her voice hits that high tone again with her excitement, and both Jaskier and Triss wince. “She came down on Monday to see the place. Her name is Yennefer, and she will be in possession by Yuletide.” She takes a breath, but then continues just as rapidly as before. “She has five thousand a year! What a fine thing for our children.”

That catches her husband’s attention, and he turns, ignoring the smug look on his wife’s face. “How so?” comes his question. “How can it affect them?”

“Oh, Mr. Pankratz,” his wife despairs. “How can you be so tiresome? Surely, you must know that I’m thinking of her marrying one of them.”

Jaskier and Triss freeze, shooting each other a look. They both know what their mother is like, once she’s got her talons in something she won’t stop until she sees it through, which often spells out disaster.

“Well,” Jaskier begins, in an attempt to lighten the somewhat diminished mood. “That is only natural. Of course a single woman in possession of a good fortune _must_ be in want of a spouse.”

Triss, Shani, and Priscilla giggle at that, Mrs. Pankratz whirling to shoot them a glare from the front of their little troupe.

“Yes, he must indeed,” she says icily, turning back to her husband. “And who better than one of our four children?”

Triss elbows Jaskier in the ribs. “Who better indeed?” she teases. “Naturally, we all know _she’ll_ be right up your alley.”

Jaskier sniffs in mock disdain as his younger two sister laugh behind them at the joke. Deciding to get his own back, he glances at his older one with the best innocent expression he can muster.

“Certainly,” he responds, voice mockingly aloof. “Although, my dear Triss, I can’t imagine it will be much difficulty on _your_ part.”

She swats him, Shani and Priscilla breaking out into more laughter at their sister’s offence.

“Watch it, or I’ll make you do my chores for the rest of the month.”

“Unlikely. I never do chores.”

“We know!” three voices ring out, and Jaskier grins to himself.

“Regardless, I’m sure this new Yennefer will hardly interact with the likes of us country folk,” Triss decides, ever the sensible one. “Mother will realise that too. She’ll drop it by the end of the week.”

She doesn’t.

It’s Monday, three weeks later, and Mrs. Pankratz is still griping. 

“Oh, what I try to do for you children is ruined!” she wails, collapsing into a chair in the living room. “Ruined!”

“We heard you the first time, Mother,” Triss says gently, looking up from her book and catching Jaskier’s eye. He too is fed up with this, but for some inexplicable reason Shani and Priscilla seem to have followed in their mother’s example and started griping. 

“Your father says he will not visit Lady Yennefer at all, even though she arrived a week ago,” Mrs. Pankratz laments, fanning herself more for effect than to cool off. 

“Mama,” Shani pipes up from near the hearth. “Can’t you reason with him?”

“What are we going to do if we’re never allowed to meet anyone?” Priscilla’s brow is furrowed.

“Mother, I’m sure he is teasing you,” Triss tries to mediate. “He will call on Lady Yennefer as sure as he would call on any new neighbor of ours.”

Mrs. Pankratz shakes her head in despair. “No, no, Triss, how can you say that? You know your father has a will of iron.”

“You’re in the right, my dear,” the man himself confirms, stepping into the sitting room with his pipe already lit. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do, if you’re that adamant: I shall write to Lady Yennefer, informing her that I have four children and she’s welcome to any of them that he chooses. They’re all silly and ignorant. Well, the younger two at least.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes fondly, catching the smile his father sends him before turning back to his lute, going back to his task of oiling the strings. In the background, his parents and younger sisters continue to argue about the possible merits of paying their new neighbour a visit.

“I doubt we shall see much of this Lady Yennefer,” Triss says to him softly, her book open on the table in between them.

Grinning, Jaskier looks up. “You’ve already been wrong about this situation once, Triss,” he says lightly. “Best not make it a second. You’ll lose your trustworthy reputation."

Triss shoots him a withering look, before sighing and straightening. “Ah, well. It is probably for the best.”

“Lying doesn’t become you. You’re as curious as the rest of us.” He pauses. “Well, except for me.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Triss smiles back. “I’m sure a lady of her fortune is likely to travel with a retinue. A nice man in her company, perhaps?”

Feigning ignorance, Jaskier looks back down at his instrument. “I have no need for a man.”

“Bullshit,” his sister hisses back, and it’s enough for his eyes to widen and look up. She’s grinning, self-satisfied. “Have all of the men who’ve passed through Lettenhove slipped your memory so quickly, then?”

“Passing fancies,” he shoots back. “And, besides, just because they passed through the town doesn’t mean that I – “

Before he can finish what was sure to be a scathing rebuttal, a loud shriek rings out. Normally, with the context, he and Triss wouldn’t pay it much heed, but unlike the earlier tones this one sounds of glee.

“What’s happened?” Triss asks, rising slightly from her seat.

“Oh, Triss!” their mother exclaims, rushing over to squeeze her eldest daughter’s arms. “Your father has merely been vexing me, you were right!

Jaskier raises his eyebrows at their father, who simply shrugs. “I only informed her that I already had paid Lady Yennefer a visit, to welcome her to the area.”

“He does care for us!” Mrs. Pankratz gushes, turning away from her daughter to rush to her husband, doting on him all the while. Jaskier, however, turns back to his older sister with narrowed eyes.

“I guess we do have to meet her after all,” he says, with no little disappointment. 

Triss sits back down, patting his hand comfortingly before pulling her book back closer. “Think of it this way,” she tries. “Shani and Priscilla will be out of the house, not even half as insufferable as when they’re cooped up. And maybe,” a sly smile slips onto her lips. “Maybe we will find you a nice man in the Lady’s company.”

Jaskier snorts. “Unlikely,” comes his response, a grin of his own appearing. “You, however, will definitely be soon in the Lady’s graces.”

Triss chuckles, shaking her head.


	2. Chapter 2

“If I could love a man who would love me enough to take me for a mere fifty crowns a year, I should be very well pleased,” Jaskier comments that evening, running a brush through Triss’ long hair where she sits cross-legged in front of him.

“Yes,” she agrees, resting her chin on the heel of her hand. “That would be worth it to me.”

Jaskier nods. “It would be. However, such a man could hardly be sensible, and you know I could never love a man who was out of his wits.”

Triss chuckles. “Indeed,” she replies easily. “You need a man more sensible than you by far, else you’d each drive the other mad.”

“Precisely,” he agrees, moving to run the brush through the last section of her hair. “I most certainly have to be the fun one. No one else can rival my talent for spreading merriment.”

“And disaster,” his sister adds.

“Touché.” He sits back, inspecting his handiwork. “There, all done.” 

Triss stands, walking over to the mirror and taking a look at her hair, turning back to her younger brother with a small smile of thanks. “Well,” she begins, leaning against her dresser. “A marriage where either partner cannot love or respect the other cannot be agreeable.”

Jaskier snorts. “As we have daily proof.” 

Triss tuts. “I suppose you’re right. However, for us, beggars cannot be choosers.”

“You are most definitely not a beggar, Triss,” Jaskier chides gently, clicking his tongue. “With Father’s estate entailed away from us to our cousin by debt, we have little but our charms to recommend us. One of us at least will have to marry very well, and since you are five times as alluring as the rest of us, and have many talents and the sweetest disposition, I fear the task will fall on you to raise our fortunes.”

“You are talented too, Jaskier,” Triss says, avoiding having to respond to the rest of the statement, though the flush on her cheeks gives her away.

“Oh, indeed,” Jaskier agrees readily. “Yes, my sultry voice and nimble fingers will have men lined up at the door to ask for my hand once they hear me sing and play.” He throws himself backwards on the bed, sprawling out and lifting a hand to his forehead as dramatic effect. “Alas, I could never find one able to satiate my wants indefinitely. I fear I shall die a lonely man.”

“Don’t jest.” Triss moves from her place to crawl over next to him on the comforter. “When I marry, I shall need you to teach my children.”

Jaskier grins. “Ah, yes. I shall eagerly take on the roll of glorified governess.” Triss shoves him and he yelps, flailing and landing on the floor in a heap. “Hey!”

“Serves you right,” she huffs, looking down as he scrambles to pull himself back up beside her. She sobers once he’s settled again. “Mother won’t be letting this one go.”

“No,” Jaskier sighs. “I don’t think she will. At least where you’re concerned, you don’t have to worry about being thrown at someone not of your preferences.”

“I’d prefer not to be thrown at anyone at all.” The rest of his words catch up with her and her eyes widen. “Oh, Jask…”

He shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“None of us should be. Besides, Mother’s never really had much use for me. I’m too rambunctious.” His tone is dripping with forced brevity, and Triss’ heart clenches. 

“And I’m just a brood mare to be sold off. Mother only looks to what benefits her.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Am I ever?”

At that, a smile forms on Jaskier’s face and he glances up, sliding off the bed so as to dodge her attack if she tries to push him off again for what he’s about to say. “I thought we established earlier today that you were incorrect.”

“You little – “ she lunges, but Jaskier’s always been the quickest in the family and easily darts out of the way, managing to escape further pursuit by the sound of the door opening and closing.

Shani sends her brother a confused look as she enters the room behind Priscilla, who’s already made a beeline to flop onto the bed.

“Wait until you hear our news!” she exclaims, bouncing on the mattress. Triss sends Jaskier a bemused look as he and Shani approach to join the other two on the bed.

“What is it?” she asks, curiosity getting the better of her.

Shani opens her mouth, but Priscilla beats her to it. “Sir Daven has called on Lady Yennefer, and Ellen says that she has brought thirty servants, forty servers, and that she’s the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen!”

Triss and Jaskier share a look at that. 

“She has purple eyes and wears a long black dress,” Shani pipes up, just as enthusiastic as her younger sister. “And she declared to Sir Daven that he loves to dance!”

“And she’s promised to come to the next ball!” Priscilla adds.

“At the assembly rooms!”

“On Saturday!”

“And bring six ladies and four gentlemen!”

Priscilla frowns at that. “No, it was twelve ladies and seven gentlemen.”

That launches an entirely new debate, and Jaskier turns to lock eyes with Triss over their younger siblings’ heads. “Far too many ladies.” Triss snorts.

* * *

The carriage rolls to a stop, Yennefer already waiting to alight the second it does. She’s not overeager, as she’d explained to Geralt earlier, she’s just ready for a night to cause some mischief and be around company other than the ones she’s been stuck with for over a week. Geralt had seemed miffed at that particular comment.

Now, he steps down after her, sniffing a little in disdain as he looks at the brightly lit building in front of them. Yennefer grins, noticing the way his lips twitch downwards in irritation.

From the other carriage, Sabrina and Istredd alight gracefully, their countenance just as sour as her other companion’s. Tissaia descends a moment later, her stern face schooled into a carefully neutral expression.

“Shall we be quite safe here, Sir Geralt, do you think?” Sabrina asks, frowning when he doesn’t respond.

Istredd scoffs. “Damn silly way to spend an evening, if you ask me.”

“We didn’t,” Yennefer responds smoothly, cowing the man back as she turns away, looking up at Geralt expectantly. He stares back, before sighing and offering his arm to escort her inside, the other three falling into place behind them as they make their way up the stairs and through the door.

They enter just as a song ends, laughter echoing throughout the large room before it quiets, eyes turning to face them from every corner. Yennefer preens under the attention, the man on her arm shrinking back from it a little.

“Lady Yennefer!” comes a voice, and she turns to see Sir Daven making his way across the floor towards their party. He gives a short bow, which is returned, and the lively sounds pick back up from around them. “Allow me the pleasure of welcoming you to our little assembly here.”

“Sir Daven,” Yennefer greets, smile on her face so as to charm the man more than she already managed to accomplish last time she met him. “I am glad to attend. There’s nothing I love more than a country dance.”

Beside her, Geralt stiffens, and Yennefer’s smile widens.

“Allow me to introduce my friend, Sir Geralt,” she says, voice honeyed even as Geralt glares at her.

“Well met,” Sir Daven says, only flinching a tiny bit when Geralt fixes him with the full force of his stare, nodding back slightly before turning to sweep his gaze over the room.

On the far side, tucked close to a corner, Jaskier slides up to his sister and their friend.

“Only two ladies, then,” he comments. “Do you know who they are, Essi?”

“Lady Yennefer’s kin, I understand,” she replies, nodding over at the elder of the two. “My father said that she was their rectress, or some such.”

Triss frowns. “And the men?”

“I’m not sure,” come’s Essi’s answer. “I don’t believe Father met them.”

“Better and better. Perhaps none of us will have any luck after all.”

“Mother will be disappointed,” Jaskier laughs, taking in the party and all of their facial expressions. “Better pleased with themselves than what they see, I think.”

Triss nods, then freezes. A sigh follows a second later. “Jask, Mother’s beckoning us over,” she says, pointing. 

He follows her finger with a sigh of his own. “I suppose we had better see what she wants.” Waving to Essi, he trails after his older sister to the other side of the room, coming to a stop before his mother.

“Triss, Julian,” she starts in a loud whisper. “You see that gentleman there? The one who entered with Lady Yennefer?”

Jaskier looks, and for a second his breath stops and his mind goes blank. There, where his mother is indicating, is quite possibly the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen. White hair artfully pulled back at the temples and golden eyes make themselves a nest in Jaskier’s memory, and he tears his eyes forcefully away. Triss gives him a knowing look which he resolutely ignores.

“Lady Daven has just told me he’s Lady Yennefer’s greatest friend,” his mother continues. “His name is Geralt, and he has a mighty fortune, and a grand estate in the northern mountains. Yennefer’s wealth is nothing to his, ten thousand a year at least! Don’t you think he’s the handsomest man you’ve ever seen, children?”

“I wonder if he’d be quite so handsome if he were not quite so rich,” Jaskier muses, earning himself a laugh from Triss and even one from his mother, though it abruptly turns into a gasp.

“Triss, by the Goddess, they’re coming over. Smile, children, smile!” She slips her own on as Jaskier and Triss glance at one another, before turning just as they’re approached.

“Mrs. Pankratz, Lady Yennefer has expressed a wish to become acquainted with you and your children,” Sir Daven says, waving at the woman behind him, the newly-discovered Geralt just behind her. 

“My lady,” Mrs. Pankratz greets. “You pay us a compliment.” 

She curtseys, Triss imitating her and Jaskier giving a short bow. The Lady inclines her head at them.

“This is Triss, my eldest,” their mother introduces, her voice high and tinny with giddiness. “And my son, Julian. My two younger daughters, Shani and Priscilla, you see there dancing.” She pauses. “Do you like to dance yourself?”

Both Jaskier and Triss stiffen at the question. It seems innocent, and can easily be excused as such, but they both know their mother too well to know that there’s an ulterior motive.

“There is nothing I like better, Madam,” Lady Yennefer responds, and Jaskier and Triss relax again. “And if Miss Triss is not otherwise engaged, may I be so bold as to claim the next two dances?”

Triss flushes a little. “I am not engaged, my lady.”

Yennefer nods. “Good.”

“You do us great honour, ma’am.” Mrs. Pankratz simpers. “Thank the lady, Triss.”

“Mother,” Jaskier hisses, admonishing as Triss looks down. She pays him no mind.

“And you, sir?” his mother says, ignoring her son and addressing Lady Yennefer’s companion. “Are you fond of dancing, too?”

The man seems taken aback by the sudden question, his mouth parting slightly but the surly expression remaining. Yennefer frowns, glancing behind her.

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” she gasps, waving a hand at the man with a smile that seems too wide to simply be polite. “Mrs. Pankratz, may I present my friend, Sir Geralt.”

They all bow and curtsey again, though Jaskier thinks to himself that Sir Geralt looks uncomfortable.

“You are very welcome to Lettenhove, I am sure, sir,” his mother goes on. “And I hope you have come here eager to dance, as your friend has.”

Jaskier winces as the even less subtle remark.

The man hums, a deep rumbling tone that Jaskier would have appreciated if the man didn’t seem to be in possession of such a negative disposition. 

“Thank you, Madam,” he responds, polite but as shortly as possible. “I rarely dance.”

“Well, let this be one of the occasions, sir,” Mrs. Pankratz enthuses, ignoring Jaskier when he shoots her a warning glance. “For I wager you’ll not easily find such lively music, or such pretty partners.” She gestures as her son with a hopeful smile.

Sir Geralt’s expression, if possible, sours further. He nods once, turning on his heel and walking away from the group, back towards the edge of the room. Mrs. Pankratz and her children stare after him.

“Interesting,” Lady Yennefer murmurs, and it’s enough to remind them of her presence, heads snapping back to look at her. “Forgive me, madam, I must excuse myself momentarily.” She inclines her head respectfully, eyes lingering on Triss before she makes her way across the floor, in the direction her friend went.

“Well!” Mrs. Pankratz utters barely a second later. “Did you ever meet such a proud, disagreeable man?”

“Mother,” Triss chastises. “He will hear you.”

His mother sniffs. “I don’t care if he does! And his friend disposed to be so elegant, and everything charming. Who is he to think himself so far above his company?”

“Well, the rich can afford to give offense wherever they go,” Jaskier reasons, though he shares his mother’s opinion, no matter how alluring those gold eyes were. “We need not care for his good opinion.”

“No, indeed.”

Triss smiles in amusement. “Perhaps he’s not so handsome, after all,” she wonders, though the sly grin she sends her brother says that she caught his slip earlier.

“No, indeed,” their mother repeats herself. “Quite ill favoured. Certainly nothing at all to Lady Yennefer.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to smirk, and Triss blushes, looking away quickly.

Their mother bustles off, and Jaskier turns to his sister to tease, only to notice the lady in question making her way back over to them.

“I shall take my leave, dear sister,” he announces, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek and whirling away before she can grab him and urge him to stay, sticking his tongue out and reveling in the fact that she can’t, not with the eye of the esteemed lady focused on her.

It only takes a moment longer for Lady Yennefer to approach Triss, offering her arm to lead her to the dance floor as the band starts up a new song to dance to, twirling into motion with the rest of the dancers for the routine, taking a break before continuing into the next one.

“I wonder at our sisters,” comes a voice from his left, and Jaskier turns to see Essi standing just behind her. “They are so fond of dancing when they do not have to. I take little pleasure in this gathering.”

Jaskier hums, indicating the seat next to him for Essi to sit, though she doesn’t. “I would take more pleasure in this one if there were enough partners as agreeable as Triss’.”

Essi nods. “She is lovely, yes. And they are quite a sight together.”

Jaskier grins at that, nodding to his friend as she heads towards the refreshments table. He watches as the song ends and Lady Yennefer bows to his sister, leading her back to their mother before heading for Sir Geralt, who is standing closer than Jaskier had realised.

“Come, Geralt, I must have you dance,” she declares, raising a hand when he looks ready to decline immediately. “I must. I hate to see you standing about in this stupid manner. You’d better dance.”

Sir Geralt hums, turning his head. Jaskier looks away quickly before he catches him.

“I certainly shall not,” he responds in that deep voice, and it’s quieter, but not so far that Jaskier can’t hear. “In an assembly such as this? It would be insupportable.”

Jaskier gapes, risking a glance over to find Lady Yennefer with almost the same expression as him, but meeting Sir Geralt’s eye defiantly.

“Your companions are engaged at present,” the man continues. “You know perfectly well it would be a punishment for me to stand up with any other person in the room.”

“By the goddess, Geralt,” Yennefer groans. “I wouldn’t be as fastidious as you are for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met so many pleasant people in my life. And several of them uncommonly pretty.” She winks.

“I didn’t realise you had honour,” Geralt retorts, and Jaskier can’t help the snort that escapes him, looking away quickly. He fancies he can feel those golden eyes boring a hole in the back of his head, though.

“Whether I do or do not is not of current importance,” Yennefer says impatiently. “Triss certainly is a lovely creature, but I still insist you dance. Look, there is her brother now.”

Jaskier stares at the dancers with more determination than ever.

“He’s very lovely, too. I’ve heard he has a great talent for music. Very agreeable.”

“Hmm,” he hears Geralt rumble. “He’s tolerable, I suppose, but not enough to tempt me.”

Now holding back laughter, Jaskier tries to subtly press a hand to his mouth lest any sounds escape it. He’s not sure he manages completely, but it’s a good enough attempt.

“Yen, I’m in no humour to give consequence to young men who are slighted by other people,” Geralt says lowly, sounding more annoyed than before. “Go back to your partner, enjoy her smiles. You’re wasting your time with me.”

Yennefer huffs, but leaves as he wishes, heading straight for Triss again. The action is endearing, but Jaskier has no time to reflect on it, the laughter threatening to spill over from his lips at any second. Hand still over his mouth, and eyes crinkled, he slides past Geralt and over towards Essi, ignoring the way the man watches him when he passes. It’s of no matter, soon his mirth will be let out and they can all have a good laugh at the man’s expense.

* * *

Jaskier’s ears are still full of the music and sounds of the party, and his slowly impending headache isn’t much helped by his mother prattling on about the affair. Mr. Pankratz seems disinterested as well, at least, trying to read a book but managing poorly.

“Triss was so admired!” Mrs. Pankratz gushes, for at least the third time that night. “There was nothing like it.”

In the corner, Shani and Priscilla giggle while Triss flushes at the praise.

“And Lady Yennefer favoured Triss above every other potential partner!” their mother goes on, her rambling not likely to be cut short any time soon. “For she danced the first two with her, and then the next with Ellen Daven, which vexed me greatly. But there in the very next, nothing would please her but to stand up with Triss again. And then, you know, she danced with Julian; and then what do you think she did next?”

Mr. Pankratz sighs, setting down his book. “Enough, enough madam!” he cries, rubbing his forehead. “Sweet Melitele, let’s hear no more of her partners. Would she have sprained her ankle in the first dance!”

His wife, of course, barely registers the complaint. “Oh, and her companions!” she continues. “So elegant and obliging! Oh, I wish you had seen them. I daresay the lace on Lady Sabrina’s gown alone…”

“No lace, no lace, I beg you,” her husband wheedles.

“Oh, but the man she brought with him,” Mrs. Pankratz starts anew, venom in her tone. “Sir Geralt, as he calls himself, is not worth our concern, though he may be the richest man in the north. The proudest, most horrid, disobliging – he slighted poor Julian, you know, flatly refused to stand up with him.”

Triss looks up at that, staring at her brother from across the table. “Slighted our Jaskier, did he?” she asks, and her expression tells him he’ll have to expand on that once they’re safely upstairs.

For now, he shrugs. “I didn’t care for him either,” he states readily. “So it is of little matter.”

“Another time, Julian, I would not dance with him if he should ask you.”

Jaskier looks at his mother. “I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you never to dance with Sir Geralt.”

His mother nods, satisfied, and he turns back to his lute and the table, glancing up to see Triss still staring at him, mouth parsed in a confused frown. Shaking his head, he pushes the sight out of his mind and returns to plucking at his instrument.

* * *

At Vengerburg Park, Yennefer is thoroughly enjoying herself, watching chaos unfold as her companions pester Geralt for his thoughts on the whole affair.

“And so, none of the Lettenhove stock could please you, Sir Geralt?” Tissaia prods, face in as smooth a mask as ever.

“Not even the famous Pankratz children?” Sabrina adds.

Istredd huffs. “Infamous, more like.”

Geralt hums, and Yennefer laughs, wine sloshing in her glass as she settles onto the arm of the couch her friend is seated on. 

“I never met with pleasanter company, or prettier people in my life,” she remarks, sure that it will add more fuel to the steadily-growing fire.

It does.

Istredd stares at her, horror splashed across his features, but it’s Geralt’s response she’s more interested in.

“Yen, you astonish me,” he grunts. “I saw little beauty, and no breeding at all.”

Tissaia smirks from across the room.

“The eldest Miss Pankratz is, I grant you, very pretty,” he concedes, looking away from Yennefer’s intense stare. “The rest, not so much.”

“A fine concession,” Yennefer cheers, raising her glass in a faux toast. “Come on, admit it. She’s an angel.”

Geralt hums.

“Oh, Triss Pankratz is a sweet girl,” Tissaia agrees. “Her mother, though…”

Yennefer sighs, unable to argue.

“I heard Julian Pankratz described as a famous local talent, or beauty.” Sabrina offers.

Tissaia nods. “What do you say to that, Sir Geralt?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “I should as soon call her mother a wit.”

Peals of laughter break out across the room, and Yennefer grins as the fire is stoked even higher. She’s enjoying this too much, and Geralt must see t in her eyes, sending her a scathing glare as he goes to stand by the hearth.

“Sir Geralt, you are too cruel,” Sabrina laughs, once she’s caught her breath.

The man doesn’t respond, and Yennefer sighs in exasperation, falling back onto the seat he’s vacated. “Geralt, I shall never understand why you go through the world determined to be displeased with everything and everyone in it.”

Geralt doesn’t look round. “You were the same not too many years ago, if I recall correctly. I will never understand why you are in such a rage now to find someone to approve of.”

“I would like to find someone I can enjoy myself with,” Yennefer snaps back easily. “Unlike you, you brute. Someone less inclined to separate themselves so wholly from good company.” She pauses, and when no response seems forthcoming concludes that she’s won this particular battle. “At any rate, you shall not make me think ill of Triss, Geralt.”

“Indeed, he shall not,” Tissaia agrees. “I shall dare his disapproval, not that it matters much to me. She is a dear, sweet girl, despite her unfortunate relations.”

Sabrina nods. “Yes, I agree. You see, Sir Geralt, we are not afraid of you.”

Geralt looks up at that, smiling sharply. “That’s too bad.”

Sabrina pales a little, but Yennefer grins, downing the rest of her wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Hope you all enjoyed this chapter - it's still really close to the plot of Pride and Prejudice, but there will be more divergences in the future!
> 
> I just want to give you all a quick note about the updates, each chapter is going to be between 3000 and 5000 words, which is great, but I have a ton of uni work to be doing at the moment so the updates won't be as frequent as they were with my Princess Bride AU, which I updated pretty much every day. On this one, the updates will be coming every other day, so you'll get three or four a week, which is still a lot!
> 
> At any rate, I really hope everyone enjoys this chapter, and I'll be back on Wednesday with the next one!


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not until the next morning that Jaskier and Triss get a moment alone. They’re in the garden, Jaskier strumming his lute while Triss picks herbs and flowers for her salves and other various concoctions.

“She’s just lovely, Jask,” Triss sighs, clipping a sprig of basil to add to her basket. “She’s lively, and charming, and playful as well. I never saw such happy manners.”

Jaskier smiles indulgently. “Handsome too, which a young woman ought to be if she possibly can.” He sends her a sly look, which she carefully ignores. “At any rate, she seems to like you very much, which shows good judgement. I give you leave to like him.” He gives a decisive nod. “You’ve liked many a stupider person.”

Triss grins. “And you haven’t?”

“She could be happier in her choice of kin and friends,” Jaskier continues, purposefully ignoring his sister’s jab. “Though the kin I suppose she cannot help.”

“Did you not like them?”

“Not at all. Their manners are quite different from hers.”

Triss frowns, nodding slightly. “At first, perhaps,” she concedes. “But after a while I found them very pleasing. Mistress Tissaia is to keep house for Lady Yennefer, and I am sure they will be very charming neighbours.”

Jaskier snorts. “One of them may be.”

“No, Jask, I’m sure you’re wrong,” Triss says. “And even Sir Geralt, you know, may improve on closer acquaintance.” This last part is accompanied by a smirk.

“Do you mean he’ll be in humour to give consequence to young men who are slighted by other people?” They both laugh, Jaskier leaning back on his section of grass next to the herb garden. “Never!”

Triss giggles, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving behind a small smear of dirt as she goes to sit next to her brother.

“He is tolerable, I suppose,” Jaskier quotes, lowering his voice and adding a hint of a growl. “But not handsome enough to tempt me.”

The siblings collapse into more laughter, Triss falling backwards to lay on the grass. “It was very wrong of him to speak so.”

“Ah, indeed,” her brother agrees. “A capital offence! I shall write a scathing song for him imminently.”

Triss chuckles, sitting back up to collect her basket. “I’ve no doubt you will,” she assures, squeezing his arm consolingly before lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, peering out across the lawn. “Look! Essi Daven has come. Essi!”

She stands, waving as their friend approaches. Jaskier sends her a grin from his place on the ground, earning a shake of the head from both girls.

“Hello, Jaskier, Triss,” she greets, smiling softly, a bit resigned. “My father is having a party at the lodge. You are all invited.”

Triss inclines her head. “Thank you, Essi, of course we shall attend.”

“But only if you say it with more enthusiasm,” Jaskier adds with a grin, yelping when his sister kicks him with the toe of her shoe. “I, uh, I mean of course.”

* * *

It’s not as loud as the ball at the assembly rooms had been, but it’s still noisy enough to provide numerous distractions. Currently, Jaskier is standing by as his mother and Dame Daven as they gently interrogate the military leader currently directing the King’s troops at the encampment not far from town.

“And are you pleased with Redania, General Vilgefortz?” Dame Daven is asking, calm and collected in a way that his own mother isn’t.

“Very much so, Dame Daven,” comes the steady response. “And never more so than this evening. The regiment of infantry don’t find a ready welcome everywhere, I fear.”

“I think your officers will be very well pleased with Lettenhove, sir,” Mrs. Pankratz chimes in, the little group of them turning at the sound of loud laughter from behind, led most raucously by Shani and Priscilla, to no one’s surprise.

“Vreemde and Devlin seem well pleased already,” Vilgefortz comments, and the conversation turns as Sir Daven joins them. Jaskier looks away, disinterested with the group once again.

His eyes continue to rove across the hall, taking in the sight of Ellen playing the piano forte, and his father talking to some colleagues before he spots a pair of fierce golden eyes trained on him.

Raising an eyebrow, he stares calmly back at Sir Geralt, who grunts and breaks his gaze as soon as he notices that he’s been caught out. A smirk carves its way onto Jaskier’s face and he turns back to his little group, sensing a lull in their chattering.

“Are you in Lettenhove to subdue the discontented populace, sir?” he asks teasingly, the General returning his smile with a small one of his own. “Or do you defend Redania against the forces of Nilfgaard?”

“Neither, sir, I trust,” Vilgefortz responds smoothly. “We hope to winter very peacefully at Lettenhove. My soldiers are in great need of training, and my officers in ever-great need of society.”

Jaskier laughs, glancing towards where his sisters dart amongst the young officers. “I can imagine,” he ribs. “Are you going to host events for them once you’re settled, then?”

“Oh, yes, please do,” the general’s wife urges. 

He looks at her. “You think a ball would be well-received?”

“A ball?” Priscilla says, appearing suddenly at her brother’s side. “Who’s giving a ball? I long for a party, and so does Vreemde.”

The man beside her nods indulgently.

“And Devlin!” Shani adds, emerging with her young man in tow. “Don’t you, Devlin?”

“I… I d-do indeed,” the poor man stutters, and Jaskier rolls his eyes. His younger sisters have learned early on how to make men in their company pushovers, a lesson he’s very proud to have taught them.

“Aw, Devlin, I knew you would,” Shani gushes, and the soldier’s cheeks pinken. “Make him give a ball, dear Francesca. We’ll dance with all the officers!”

“If Ellen would only play something, we could dance with them now,” Priscilla grumbles, turning to glare at the girl. “Ellen! Ellen, let’s have no more of that dull stuff. Play something jolly, we want to dance!”

Jaskier closes his eyes, composing himself as the room quiets at the loud noise, the drama unfolding further as the girl refuses at first. He pinches the bridge of his nose when she finally, reluctantly, starts up the tune to a jig. As carefully and inconspicuously as he can, he peels himself away from the middle of the floor, where the dancers are getting into position, heading to the edge of the room where he can lean against the wall with a sigh.

“I see that Lady Yennefer continues her attentions to Triss,” someone comments, and Jaskier looks to his left to see Essi, nodding at the couple before glancing at her younger sister, still playing the piano forte with irritation in her eyes.

“I am very happy for her,” Jaskier replies, watching as his sister laughs, causing the Lady’s face to light up with pride.

“She does seem very well pleased with her.”

“I think,” he starts, watching the Lady place her hand on Triss’ arm. “If she continues so, she is in a fair way to be very much in love with her.”

“And Lady Yennefer?” Essi queries. “Do you think she is in love?”

Jaskier hesitates a moment before he speaks. “It is clear that she likes her very much,” comes his careful answer, watching closely as Lady Yennefer guides Triss over to her companions.

“Then she should leave her in no doubt of her heart. She should show more affection, even than she feels, not less, if she is to secure her?”

“Secure her?” Jaskier repeats, chuckling. “Come now, Essi.”

“Well, yes,” Essi says decisively, standing by her opinion. “She should secure the Lady as soon as may be, before other parties attempt to do so.”

Jaskier runs the point through his mind quickly. “Before she is sure of her character?” he questions a second later. “Before she is even certain of her own regard?”

“But of course,” his friend replies, in a tone that brooks no argument. “Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance, you know. There will always be vexation, and grief; and it is better to know in advance as little as possible of the defects of your marriage partner.”

He can’t help it, Jaskier laughs, drawing a few pairs of eyes to him. He pays them no heed.

Essi looks affronted. “Is it not, now?”

“Oh, Essi. You know it is not sound,” he berates gently, still grinning. “You would never act like that yourself.”

“Well, it seems that Triss will not,” Essi counters. “So, we must hope that Lady Yennefer will. I think she gets little encouragement from her kin.” She stares at the two women and the dark-skinned man, while Jaskier’s eyes go straight for Sir Geralt, who quickly looks away.

He narrows his eyes. “Or her friend.”

Across the room, Geralt looks back over, almost as if he’s heard what they’re talking about. Jaskier darts his eyes away, quickly reminding himself that it’s not possible over the din of the gathering. Unfortunately, he’s not fast enough to turn and Essi notices.

“Sir Geralt looks at you a great deal, Jask,” she remarks softly.

“I cannot think why,” Jaskier scoffs in an attempt to hide his misstep. “Unless he means to frighten me with his contempt. I wish he would not come into society; he only makes people uneasy.”

It seems to do the trick, Essi laughs at his quip and lets it go, to Jaskier’s intense relief. Carefully, he looks back, forcing his eyes to continue scanning when he sees Geralt dart his gaze back to him. It’s all he can do to push back the blood starting to rise to his cheeks, unsure why the attentions of such a… well, yes, exceedingly good-looking but horribly ill-tempered man affect him so.

Geralt, for his part, has no more of a grasp of the situation than the Pankratz son. Yes, he will admit that the boy’s features are lovely, even going to far as to begrudgingly admit to himself that the cornflower blue eyes are exceptional, but despite seeming slightly more level-headed than his younger siblings he seems to have nothing else to recommend himself. Nothing but a pretty face, it would appear.

“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Sir Geralt,” Sir Daven interrupts his musings. “There’s nothing like dancing, you know. One of the refinements of every polished society.”

Geralt hums. “And every unpolished society.”

Sir Daven seems taken aback at the statement. “Sir?”

“Every savage can dance.”

“Oh, yes… yes, quite.”

In the midst of the conversation, Geralt loses sight of the Pankratz boy once he slips away from the wall. His attention is drawn from searching for him when raucous laughter breaks out from the dancefloor, glancing over to see the youngest Pankratz girl spinning between two of the uniformed officers.

“Capital, capital. Ah, Master Julian.”

Sir Daven’s voice cuts through his ears and his head snaps back, just in time to see the Pankratz boy attempt to squeeze past them. Daven grabs the boy’s arm before he can flee.

“Julian, why are you not dancing?” he asks, then remembers Geralt beside him. “Sir Geralt, allow me to present this young man to you as a desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I’m sure, when so much beauty is before you.”

The boy looks up, blue eyes wide but determined, defiant even. “Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing,” he states, meeting Geralt’s gaze squarely. 

He’s not a boy, Geralt realises now that he’s close enough to take a good look. He’s young, yes, and clean-shaven with sharp, youthful features, but the air about him and the slight stubble on his jaw betray him as a man.

“Please don’t suppose that I have moved this way in order to beg for a partner,” he finishes.

Geralt clears his throat roughly, still unsure as to why he’s suddenly interested in the man. “I would be very happy if you would do me the honour of being my dance partner, Master Julian,” he offers, hoping that being as blunt as possible (though Yennefer assures him he’s never anything but) will win him over.

It doesn’t.

“I thank you, but you must excuse me,” the man replies, all grace and decorum. “I am not inclined to dance.”

“Come, come. Why not?” Sir Daven inquires, forcing Julian to stay longer than he evidently wants to. Geralt’s not sure how that makes him feel. “When you see Sir Geralt has no objection, although he dislikes the amusement so much in general.”

The corner of Julian’s mouth twitches up a bit at the comment, and Geralt’s eyes zero in on the miniscule motion.

“Sir Geralt is all politeness,” Julian decides.

“He is,” Sir Daven agrees readily, though Geralt is more focused on the curve of Julian’s mouth. “He is; and why should he not be, considering the inducement? For who could object to such a partner, eh, Geralt?”

Geralt blinks, tearing his gaze away to stare at Sir Daven. He opens his mouth to reply, but Julian beats him to the chase.

“I beg you would excuse me.” He gives a quick bow, before turning and disappearing off through the crowd. Geralt is left feeling strangely wrong-footed, completely alone with his thoughts when their host slips from his side a second later to go greet more guests.

He stays behind, watching for a glimpse of the dark blue - not quite navy - of the suit Julian’s wearing.

“I believe I can guess your thoughts at this moment.”

Geralt looks over, seeing Tissaia step towards him, face as carefully schooled as ever.

“I should imagine not,” he responds, careful to keep any expression that might betray him from forming.

“You are thinking,” Tissaia starts, “How insupportable it would be to spend many evenings in such tedious company.”

“No, indeed, my mind was more agreeably engaged,” comes his swift response. “I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty partner can bestow.”

Tissaia doesn’t raise her eyebrows, but there’s a twitch of the muscles there that implies she wants to. “And may one ask whose are the eyes that inspired these reflections?”

Geralt looks back out into the crowd. “Master Julian Pankratz’.”

When he turns again, Tissaia’s brows have finally shot up. He waits as she seems to pull herself back together.

“Julian Pankratz,” she repeats, ordering her expression once more. “I am all astonishment.”

Geralt hums, golden eyes once again searching out blue ones.

* * *

“There’s a letter for you, Mistress Triss,” the housekeeper says the next morning, curtseying and handing it to her. Jaskier looks over curiously as Triss thanks the woman, taking the piece of paper and breaking the seal, eyes quickly scanning what’s written on it.

“It is from Vengerburg,” she says calmly, though her brother doesn’t miss the light flush the word brings.

“Oh!” Their mother exclaims. “How exciting. What does it say?”

“Madam Tissaia has sent it.”

Mrs. Pankratz deflates a little, but perks back up quickly. “Well, that is a good sign too,” she decides. “Quickly, Triss, what does it say?”

“She is inviting me to lunch,” Triss reports. “Her and Miss Sabrina would like to extend their company for the afternoon.”

Mrs. Pankratz claps her hands together in delight. “Of, but of course you must go!” she exclaims.

Jaskier grins as Triss nods, smiling slightly. “May I have the carriage, Father?”

“The carriage? No indeed!” Mrs. Pankratz rebukes before her husband can reply. “You must go on horseback, for it looks like rain. Then you will have to stay the night.”

Her eldest two children gape in astonishment, their father setting down his silverware and looking out the window pensively.

“Mother!” Jaskier gasps, clutching his sister’s hand.

“Well, why do you look at me like that?” the woman asks, miffed. “Would you go all the way to Vengerburg and back without seeing Lady Yennefer? No, indeed.”

“Come, my dear,” Mr. Pankratz finally chimes in. “If you are adamant that Triss go on horseback, so be it. Only, send Julian with her too. I won’t have any of my children rushing off alone.”

Their mother huffs, but seems to sense that agreeing is the safest route to take if she wants her eldest daughter to go at all. “Fine,” she agrees, beckoning for the housekeeper to approach. “Have Daisy and Buttercup saddled.”

Under the table, Jaskier squeezes Triss’ hand.

* * *

Lunch appears to be more of an interrogation than a pleasant meal, Jaskier thinks. Thankfully, though, he’s able to remain quiet for most of it, the majority of the questions directed towards Triss, at whom he regularly shoots reassuring smiles.

“Your aunt lives here in Lettenhove too, yes?” Tissaia is asking, carefully blowing on her soup.

“Yes,” Triss responds softly. “My mother’s sister. Her husband, my uncle, is an attorney in town.”

Across from him, Miss Sabrina winces, and Jaskier surreptisiously glances to his right to check if Triss had noticed. Thankfully, she hasn’t, and retains her polite but somewhat distant demeanour. 

Tissaia smiles soothingly. “And your father’s brother lives in the capital?”

Triss nods. “Yes, in Gracetemple Street.”

“Charming.”

There’s a pause then, as the four of them continue to finish their meals in silence, the plates collected dutifully by the servants as soon as they’re empty.

“Good afternoon,” comes a voice, and the four diners look up as a dark-skinned man enters the room. Jaskier recognises him as one of Lady Yennefer’s companions, the one who appeared so disgusted by both the ball the week before and the party at Sir Daven’s lodge last night.

“Ah, Istredd,” Sabrina greets, clapping her hands together. “Are you here to join us for the afternoon?”

“If you’ll have me,” the man replies, smiling at the guests, though it doesn’t seem to quite reach his eyes. “Perhaps you’ll all join me for a turn around the estate?”

Tissaia rises from her chair. “An excellent idea,” she pronounces, the rest imitating her and following as she guides them to the foyer, nodding at one of the servants to fetch their outerwear. He returns quickly, passing out the garments.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asks quietly, handing his sister her coat before slipping on his own.

“Of course,” Triss answers easily, pulling on her hat. She still seems nervous, but somewhat settled now she knows her brother is still looking out for her. “I’m supposed to be the older sibling, remember.”

Jaskier grins back, wanting to stick his tongue out at her but not quite daring enough to do it in this grand house. “But you make it so easy to forget.”

Triss rolls her eyes at him, fastening the ribbons of her hat. He laughs a little, turning around to take in the others in their company.

Sabrina and Istredd are finishing with their buttons, but Tissaia is already waiting by the door, a burgundy cloak secured over her shoulders as she motions imperiously for the door to be opened, peering outside.

Jaskier steps a little closer. “I believe it looks like rain,” he comments, glancing at the clouds above, remembering what his mother had said that morning.

Tissaia looks at him for a moment, and it’s a little disconcerting when she doesn’t blink. Jaskier shifts nervously.

“We shall stay close to the house, then,” she decides after a few seconds in which Jaskier desperately tries not to quail under the strength of her gaze. He’s used to intimidating women, but this one’s eyes are something else completely. They set out a few moments later.

Jaskier is determined to hate the gardens. Lady Yennefer’s home itself is beautiful, though the manner of company she keeps is decidedly less so. After a surprisingly good meal and a lovely house, he’s determined to find something at fault, any sort of metaphor to explain why she keeps such unpleasant people around, expescially her great friend, who he decides not to think about at present.

He doesn’t hate the gardens.

They’re exceedingly lovely, which he’s quite miffed about, and even contain an impressive number of hidden benches which would make the perfect spot to practice an instrument. He notes each one carefully, in the event of having to find a hideout should there ever be a ball to attend at Vengerburg Park.

Triss seems to be enjoying herself much more now that they’re outside, holding her brother’s arm without concern even for the storm clouds steadily rolling in. He’s not the only one that notices, Tissaia falling into step beside them while Istredd and Sabrina lead the way up ahead.

She speaks to his sister calmly, even deigning to ask Jaskier a few questions about music which he answers enthusiastically, albeit with more restraint than he’d normally employ. All in all, it’s a much more pleasant experience than what he had been dreading, though the manners still leave something to be desired. It’s not a group he finds himself fully relaxed in, unwilling to launch into a raunchy tune for a few laughs, but it’s enough that Triss seems happy.

They manage to round the final corner as the first crack of thunder rings out through the landscape.

Triss glances up at the sky, pulling her arm from the crook of her brother’s elbow. “I will go check on our horses,” she says, pointing towards the stables a short distance away. She curtseys to Tissaia. “I shall rejoin you shortly.”

She’s off a second later, ever the sensible one to think of checking on their mode of transport when they’re away from home.

Tissaia and Jaskier continue their walk in companionable silence, not half as awkward as Jaskier had thought it would become without his sister to act as a sort of barrier.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Tissaia comments out of the blue as they’re nearing the approach to the house.

Jaskier glances over, but the woman makes no move to look at him. “She is,” he agrees carefully after a beat. “She’s always been the best of us.”

Tissaia nods, as though she’d been expecting nothing less, and they walk on. 

Not quickly enough, however, as before they reach the bottom steps up to the terrace the heavens open up above them and the rain starts pouring down, soaking them before they’ve managed to make it two steps farther. 

“Come!” Tissaia calls, holding her skirts as she hurries up the steps, Jaskier scrambling behind her as they rush to shelter, racing through the doorway and stopping with a sigh of relief. 

They’re all drenched, he notes, taking in the sight of the puddles slowly forming on the tiled floor.

“Did we all make it in?” Sabrina asks, peeling off her coat and wringing it out on the floor before tossing it to a servant in disgust.

Istredd glances around. “I believe so.”

Something’s missing, though. 

“Triss,” Jaskier gasps, throat seizing up with panic as he scans every face in the room. “Triss went to check on our horses. She’s still outside!”

The others shout for him to wait but he pays them no heed, shoving his hair out of his face and rushing back out the door and into the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops... time to add the drama!
> 
> Thank you all for waiting, here's the next chapter! I really hope you enjoy it, and I'll see you all again with the next one on Friday!


	4. Chapter 4

His clothes had been drenched before, but now it almost feels like he’s been submerged in a lake. They stick to him as he rushes towards the stables, gasping at the droplets running into his mouth. 

“Triss!” Jaskier calls, though he doubts anyone would be able to hear him in this torrential downpour, the wind and rushing water stealing his shouts away before they can be heard. He doesn’t stop trying, however. “Triss!”

There’s a hazy shape up ahead, and he thinks it’s the stable, he’s certainly heading in the right direction. It takes him longer than it normally would to reach the building, slipping over the wet ground before he manages to duck inside the thankfully dry structure.

Pushing his hair back again he searches the interior, eyes landing on Daisy and Buttercup stabled safely with plenty of oats and water, but his sister is nowhere in sight. He steps further into the building, casting his gaze around frantically, but realises rapidly that she’s no longer here. Or, he thinks as he turns to go back outside, she never made it in the first place. 

“Julian?” comes a voice and he turns around quickly, one step away from returning to the bad weather outside.

“Yes?”

To his horror, as if this day could get any worse, Sir Geralt steps out from a stall holding a bay horse, brow furrowed as he looks Jaskier over. “What are you doing out here?”

“My sister didn’t make it to the house before the rain hit,” he tells the man, voice laced with just a tinge of desperation in it. “She said she was coming to check on the horses. Have you seen her?”

Sir Geralt frowns. “No, I haven’t. Could she have returned to the house while you came looking?”

Jaskier shakes his head adamantly. “I didn’t pass her, and her eyes are bad. They cannot see well far into the distance; I don’t believe she would have been able to find her way.” He takes another step towards the threshold, the rain an inch from his form and splashing onto his shoes. “Thank you for your help, but I really must – “

“Julian!” that deep voice calls, grabbing Jaskier’s arm before he can make it two steps outside. “You’re an idiot, go back to the house.”

Jaskier gapes, blinking the rain out of his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” the other man says in a tone of exasperation, the water starting to cover his previously dry figure. “Go back to the house, I’ll find your sister.”

“I think not!” Jaskier exclaims, wrenching his arm from the man’s (impressively strong) grasp. “She’s my sister, sir, and I will find her.”

He darts away, barely catching the sound of a rumbling swear behind him before he’s off, looking around through the dense rain that attempts to obscure all his vision. It’s only been about a minute when the sound of heavy steps ring out from behind him. 

“Julian – Gods damn it – just wait!” Geralt is yelling, hastening to catch up. “I can’t believe you. Just let me help!”

“You may help, sir,” Jaskier snaps, still looking around for any sight of the rust-coloured dress Triss had been wearing today. “But you will not make me leave.”

“Gods, you’re stubborn,” the man breathes, but he’s close enough for Jaskier to hear. He sends him a glare, turning away from him again. Geralt hurries back up to him. “Alright, fine. You said she was heading for the stables?”

Jaskier nods, only to realise that it’s probably not clear with the rain still whipping around them. “Yes, we parted at the corner of the house.”

The corner of the house. Oh. 

Without a second thought he takes off, further to the side of the house than the route he’d initially taken. He hears Geralt behind him, but doesn’t pay attention when a flash of colour catches his eye, lying in a heap on the ground where he guesses would be about halfway between the stables and the far corner of the house.

“Triss!” he shouts, voice hoarse as he skids to a halt beside the form, dropping to his knees and reaching out a hand to press against her shoulder.

Triss looks up, hair plastered to her face and dress muddy along the hem. “Jask,” she gasps, eyes flickering to meet his. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t see the house…”

“I know, I know, it’s alright,” Jaskier assures her, extending his other hand to try and help her to her feet. It’s slow-going, but even more so when her eyes slide closed and she slips into a dead faint in his arms.

“Shit!” The curse slips through his lips without any sense of decorum, hands scrabbling to find purchase as he tries to hold her upright.

The footsteps behind him come to a stop and suddenly Geralt is there, stronger arms reaching to take Triss’ limp form from her brother without question, pulling her knees over one arm and her shoulders across another.

“Come on,” he beckons, quick but sturdy steps guiding them back towards the house, Jaskier hot on his heels.

They burst through the door, leaving puddles on the newly-mopped tile floor, but Jaskier can’t find it within himself to care. Ahead, Sabrina gasps in one of the doorways, Istredd watching on unhelpfully.

It’s Tissaia that takes charge. “Fossett, Miss Pankratz is unwell. Fetch help,” she orders, and the servant nods, running off a second later. The woman glances at Triss, then jerks her head to follow her. “This way. We’ll put her in one of the spare bedrooms for now. The maids can bring her temporary clothing while they launder her own.”

Nodding, Geralt follows the woman’s steps, Jaskier scampering behind and feeling rather useless, but still panicked enough that he doesn’t feel guilty about it just yet. Instead, he climbs the grand staircase up to a hallway of doors, following along until they reach a certain one that Tissaia opens, ushering the others inside.

“Not yet,” she says sharply when Geralt goes to lay Triss on the bed. He turns, eyebrows raised. Tissaia sighs. “We’ll need to get her out of those soaking clothes before she rests,” she explains, watching as a few maids shuffle in with piles of towels and a clean garment for her to change into, one of them dragging a basin for bathing behind her. She makes a shooing motion with her hands. “And I would suggest you do the same. Both of you: out!” 

Geralt hums in agreement, setting Triss carefully down on the floor in front of the fireplace on of the maids is lighting, two of the others rushing over with towels to dry her off. He turns, glancing back once before exiting the room.

Jaskier stays behind, eyes wide even as one of the maids starts to unbutton his sister’s coat, which is exactly when Tissaia catches sight of him again.

“You too, Master Julian,” she reprimands, though her voice is a little gentler. “I shall call you back when you can enter.”

“Thank you,” he rasps, putting as much sincereity into it as he feels, despite the concern still vastly overwhelming him. Tissaia nods, eyes soft as she watches him back out of the room, closing the door behind him.

He’s suddenly alone, left in the hall outside the door to pace even as rainwater continues to drip freely from his own clothes, the chill not quite penetrating the warm rush left behind by the adrenaline. It’s probably about five minutes of quiet panicking when the sound of hurrying footsteps draw him from his contemplation.

“I heard what happened,” Lady Yennefer begins, rushing up in a meticulous dark riding dress and clutching a bundle of cloth. Her purple eyes flick to him. “Will she be alright?”

“I hope so, my lady,” Jaskier responds as calmly as possible. “Madam Tissaia has sent for help, and I shall check on her when I may return inside.”

The lady nods, and it seems that there is actual worry on her lovely features, a fact that he files away to dissect later, probably to tease Triss about when she’s better.

Triss.

His breath hitches a little and Yennefer looks back at him, expression softening just as Tissaia’s had done moments before.

“I brought you these,” she remarks, holding out the bundle to him. He takes it, looking up gratefully when he sees it’s dry clothes. “They’re Istredd’s,” she explains. “They may not fit perfectly, but it should be enough until your own are dry. You can change in there.” She points at the door next to the one Triss is behind.

“Thank you,” he says, full sincerity for the second time that day. Yennefer nods, sending him a half-smile before glancing back at Triss’ door, staring at it a moment before turning and making her way back down the hall, likely to deal with the servants or whoever has been sent for to help.

Jaskier watches as she disappears down the steps, reaching for the handle and opening the door that had been indicated. It’s identical to the one Triss is in, another guest bedroom then, and there’s a door that connects the two chambers. The fire inside has already been lit, and once the door is closed he walks over, pulling off his clothes that stick to him like a second skin. Once he’s wrung them out, he lays them over the drying rack before the hearth that’s helpfully been provided, turning to the bundle Yennefer had given him.

Keeping his own smallclothes and stockings, which thankfully are only damp - having been protected by the layers of his other clothes – Jaskier reaches for the attire Lady Yennefer had supplied him with. The colours are more muted than he’d usually prefer, but he imagines he’ll only be waiting on Triss, and his own clothes should be dry before he has to venture out again.

The clothes are a bit long for him, which is to be expected with Istredd’s height, but the fit is slim enough to fit him without hanging too loose. He dresses quickly, forgoing the tailcoat to pull on his own shoes, rushing back into the corridor to wait until he’s allowed back in to see Triss.

Waiting for him in the hall is Sir Geralt, once again dry and changed out of his riding clothes. Those golden eyes meet Jaskier’s, trailing down his form before snapping back up to his face. Jaskier fancies that he sees them widen minutely, though what that means he has no idea.

“Sir Geralt,” he greets, nodding stiffly.

The man nods back. “Master Julian.” There’s a beat of silence. “I have come to inquire after your sister.”

Outside, the rain has stopped. A flash storm, then, not uncommon in the early summer months. Hopefully it means that a doctor can be fetched soon.

“I thank you for your concern,” Jaskier responds, and the man across from him frowns a little, probably trying to fit the unruly creature from earlier to the tempered figure he cuts now. “But I cannot dissuade your worries. I myself am waiting to be let back in.”

Geralt hums, glancing away from Jaskier. “I see.”

The silence is awkward, and although Jaskier hates to thank the man who’s been so uncouth in the past, he knows that he has to say it.

“I owe you my gratitude, sir,” he gets out, holding back any urge he has to snap at the man who may have saved his favourite sister’s life. “For assisting me and bringing Triss back here.”

The man’s eyes flicker back, holding Jaskier’s gaze. He watches them, coolly, and given a hundred lifetimes he’s not sure if he’d be able to figure out all the nuances they hold.

After a second, Geralt inclines his head. “You are welcome.” His voice is still deep, but the growl seems to have temporarily left it, even as they both fall silent again.

The door opens and the maids scurry away. Tissaia steps out behind them, and both men look to her, inherently grateful for her interrupting before another uncomfortable lull can develop. 

“Sir Geralt,” she greets, turning to Jaskier immediately after. “Master Julian. Your sister is safely in bed, resting. She regained consciousness, but I am of the opinion that she needs to sleep. I’m sure the doctor will corroborate that when she arrives.”

Jaskier nods gratefully to her. “Thank you, Madam,” he breathes, glancing at the other man as he reaches for the doorknob. “Sir Geralt.”

The man blinks at him, but doesn’t say anything in return, so Jaskier slips inside, pushing the door closed behind him and hurrying to his sister’s bedside.  
She looks at him blearily. 

“Jask.”

“Hello, Triss,” he greets, a soft smile curving its way onto his lips when he sees that she’s alright, taking hold of her hand. Her skin is clammy, and a quick touch against her forehead tells him she’s developing a fever, but the fact that she’s able to think clearly is a welcome sign.

“I’m tired,” she says, voice barely more than a whisper.

“I know,” her brother soothes, running a hand through her hair in the way he knows settles her. “They’ve sent for the doctor, but until then, you should sleep.”

Triss hums, angling her head so that Jaskier can reach more, and it’s not too long before her breathing evens out. 

Jaskier stays, pulling a chair over so he can sit, hand still gently running through her curls.

* * *

“Well, he must be an excellent bloodhound,” Sabrina laughs. “But his appearance when he entered – I’ve never seen such an unkempt person in my life.”

“I’d been out in the weather too,” Geralt says softly. “Did you find me unkempt?”

The woman splutters. “Why, I… well…”

“I could hardly keep my countenance,” Istredd speaks up. “What does he mean by scampering about in a storm because his sister is checking on some workhorses?”

“Oh, but his trousers!” Sabrina finds her tongue again. “You must have seen it, Yennefer. The knees covered in mud.”

Yennefer shrugs. “I must confess it escaped my notice,” she replies. “I thought he looked remarkably well.”

“You must have seen it, Sir Geralt,” Istredd nudges. “You were there heroically yourself.”

Geralt nods once. “I did.”

Sabrina smirks. “I’m inclined to believe you wouldn’t wish your ward to make such an exhibition.”

“Certainly not.”

“It seems to me to show an abominable sort of foolhardiness, wouldn’t you agree?”

Istredd nods. “An idiot if I ever saw one.

Geralt bristles at the word.

“It shows an affection for his sister that is quite pleasing,” Yennefer retorts, sipping a glass of wine that Geralt is a little jealous of, especially considering the company he’s having to deal with. 

“I’m afraid, Sir Geralt,” Tissaia finally joins in the conversation, sitting primly and watching him with eyes that seem to see right through him. “That this escapade may have affected your admiration for his fine eyes.”

Her words aren’t cruel, simply probing, and that’s why he doesn’t rise to the challenge the others are setting him. “Not at all. They were brightened by the exercise.”

There’s some silence that follows his words, the others taking them in despite their obvious disagreement. Sabrina is gaping, and Istredd is the first to make an attempt again.

“I don’t see why you had to give him my clothes,” he moans. “Gods only know what he could be doing in them.”

“Sitting by his sister’s sickbed, I imagine,” Yennefer snaps, face drawn in anger. “I’m sure he’ll return them as neatly as they were given, and you’ll be accommodating. Or do I need to tell my staff to stop doing your laundry altogether?”

Istredd shuts his mouth quickly. Geralt smirks a little, a motion that’s not missed by his friend.

She raises an eyebrow at him curiously. “Besides, this is my house, and you are all my guests,” she says tersely. “They are my guests as well, and you will treat them as such.” Her tone brooks no argument, and only Tissaia meets her steely gaze to give a short nod, not that Tissaia would be the one to be most concerned about of the three.

There’s a knock on the doorpost, and the room’s occupants look up.

“The doctor is here, my lady,” the servant in the doorway says. “She’s with Miss Pankratz now.”

“Thank you, Fossett,” Yennefer says, turning back to face the room. “Now, if none of you have any other complaints about my guests, I suggest we all wait until we know what is happening.”

There’s a low rumble of agreement that goes through the room, some more obliging than others. Geralt settles in for a quiet afternoon, reaching for his book on the side stable.

* * *

Dinner has just been announced when the doctor comes down to the sitting room, with Julian in tow. He’s changed back into his own clothes, seeming to have been laundered, though there are faint stains on the knees where he had kneeled in the mud. He looks more comfortable than when Geralt had seen him in the hall, though he doesn’t know if that’s down to wearing his own clothing again or if he’s less concerned about his sister.

Yennefer stands to greet them. “Thank you, for coming to quickly,” she greets. “May I ask as to how Miss Pankratz is faring?”

“I would recommend Triss stay with complete bedrest for the next two days at least,” the doctor reports, thanking the servant that brings her coat. “It is not a bad fever, but one that I’d rather not exacerbate lest it get into her lungs.”

“Of course,” Tissaia nods. “Thank you, doctor.”

“Fossett,” Yennefer calls. “Please escort the good doctor home, and take care of that errand I gave you.”

The servant bows. “I will, my lady.”

Yennefer smiles, satisfied, then turns to Julian who’s still standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“I’ve sent to your home for fresh clothes, enough until your sister is capable of leaving. You may, of course, remain in the rooms you’re in.” Julian looks ready to protest, but Yennefer holds up her hand. “I won’t hear any objections. It would be remiss of me as both hostess and neighbour to allow your sister to travel in her state.”

“We don’t wish to intrude – “ Julian tries, only to be cut off.

“You’re not,” she assures him. “This is my home, and you are welcome in it.”

The man shuffles, but seems to accept the situation. “You are most kind, my Lady.”

“I know.” Yennefer grins, then waves him over. “Come, join us. We were about to sit down for supper.”

Julian still seems hesitant to accept, but goes along when Yennefer links her arm through his, drawing him to the dining room for the rest to follow. 

Geralt is the first to go, eyes trailing over his friend and her escort as she chatters away, telling the young man about the history she’s learnt about the house. He nods along, clearly not paying careful attention to her words, likely more concerned about his sister upstairs.

It’s still annoying to Geralt that he can’t figure out why he feels the urge to watch him - his eyes are brighter than any he’s seen before, true - but he barely knows the man. There’s no indication of why he feels the need to be around him, especially as his family seems to be such a frivolous, foolish lot. Though, he must admit, the eldest children do seem considerably more put together than the rest.

The table is laid out as usual, but with an extra place set for their guest, just to the right of Yennefer’s own seat at the head of the table and across from his own. Dinner is a quiet affair, something not usual for Vengerburg, but under the circumstances he can understand it.

Geralt eats as silently as the rest, but finds himself still looking up to catch a glimpse of the man across from him. With more chance to study the young man, he sees the dark circles under his eyes, the brown hair that’s finally dried, but seemingly only brushed through with his fingers, mussed and curling onto his forehead.

His own fingers twitch inexplicably at the thought and he looks over again, only to catch Yennefer watching him in the corner of his eye. Raising his eyebrows, he turns to her instead, immediately returning to his plate when he sees the smug grin on her face that he’d rather not try to dissect now.

The rest of the meal is as quiet as it started, but Geralt no longer takes the risk to look up.

Julian excuses himself rather quickly after that. Yennefer does impress upon him her desire to see him later that evening, when they’ve all settled together in the parlour, which he acquiesces to, albeit slightly reluctantly.

* * *

Jaskier just wants to leave altogether, but there’s no way he’ll be able to escape with Triss still ill. He practically rushes from dinner, only agreeing to come down later that evening when Lady Yennefer implores him, his manners not yet having escaped him. For now, though, he’s quick on his feet to return to his sister’s bedside.

A traitor to her family, Triss is awake enough that when Jaskier bemoans having to return to the group downstairs, she encourages him enthusiastically, barely stopping in her campaign to make him like her new acquaintances when the servant from before brings a trunk into the room, full with changes of clothes and a few essentials for both of them.

“You don’t seem that sick now, Triss,” Jaskier comments when his sister flings a tailcoat at him.

“It is a burst of energy, nothing more,” she responds lightly, pulling the covers up to her chin as she lays back down. “I’ve been sleeping all afternoon, and I’m likely to go to sleep again in a few moments.” She shuffles, trying to get comfortable. “But first, go put that on. You’re lucky Mother sent it.”

Jaskier huffs. “Fine,” he mutters, admitting defeat and retreating through the adjoining door to his own room. He takes off his clothes, including the trousers with the lingering stain, which he’s sure is never going to come out. That’s the third pair ruined this month alone.

Instead, he pulls on the fresh set of clothes (and oh, it’s nice not to have to wear the slightly damp ones he’d hurriedly put back on before dinner). Triss is right, it is one of his favourites, the deep red that could almost be called burgundy, before scurrying back to present himself.

“There,” he says, giving her a spin. “Shall I disgrace you; do you think?”

Triss claps. “You look very handsome, Jaskier, as you are well aware.”

He sends her a smile. “Oh, Triss… I’d much rather stay here with you.” He drifts over to her bedside and grasps her hand in his own. “The superior duo wishes me miles away.”

Triss smiles sadly. “I do not believe it.”

“Oh, they do,” Jaskier confirms, leaning on the side of the bed. “Only your Lady Yennefer is civil and attentive.”

“She is not my Lady Yennefer, Jask.”

Jaskier grins. “Oh, but I think she is… or very soon will be.”

Triss chuckles, though it turns into a bit of a cough at the end. Jaskier immediately rises.

“I must go into the dragon’s den,” he tells her, leaning down to place a kiss on her brow. “Stay here.”

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere else,” Triss returns, eyes already sliding closed as her brother opens the door, casting her one last look before slipping outside and heading towards the stairs.

He descends slowly, trying to waste some time before he’s inevitably thrown back into the pit of vipers he’s sure to encounter, including not only Lady Yennefer’s kin, but also Sir Geralt, who continues to vex him greatly. He simply cannot get a grasp on the character of the man, whether he acts out of pride and duty or pure arrogance.

“I believe you will find Lady Yennefer is in the drawing room, sir,” one of the servants informs him, startling him out of his ponderings and making him miss a step.

“Right, uh, yes,” Jaskier acknowledges as the servant bows. “Thank you.”

He enters the designated room as quietly as possible, but completely fails in his subtle entry when Lady Yennefer springs up to greet him. 

“Ah, Julian, here you are,” she welcomes, with a smile on her face that seems too genuine to belie any pretences. “Come join us, we were just playing some cards.”

“I believe it is in your best interest if I were to abstain, my lady,” he responds, stepping further into the room. Sir Geralt is absent, he notices with a hint of relief.

Lady Yennefer cocks a brow. “Pray tell. Are you that good?”

“I am not a bad player, my lady,” he replies. “However, I am afraid my mind might be drawn to other matters at present. I would not wish to ruin your evening with my own distraction.”

Yennefer smiles softly. “Then I shall issue you to play a match with me another time,” she decides. “But I respect your wishes. And none of this ‘my lady’ nonsense, either. We are all friends here.”

I very much doubt that, Jaskier thinks, but he nods politely. “Of course.”

“Here,” the lady exclaims, directing him towards one of the couches. “There are some books! Perhaps you would like to read?”

“I thank you, my – “ he cuts himself off, remembering what she had said. “Thank you.”

Taking one of the books splayed out on the side table at random, he settles in on the couch to read, tuning out most of the noise from the card table as he does.

He’s already finished the first chapter – a rather interesting tome on the merits of the sciences in everyday life – when Sabrina speaks louder than before, pulling him out of his reverie.

“Oh, Sir Geralt, come and advise me, for Istredd carries all before him!”

The man laughs, setting down another card to a chorus of groans as Jaskier peels his eyes away from his book to look at Sir Geralt, who must have entered silently. As it happens, he’s already watching him and approaching, stopping a few feet away.

“May I inquire after your sister, Master Julian?” he asks, and it’s almost comically identical to his question earlier in the afternoon.

“I thank you, yes,” Jaskier returns after only a second of blinking away his surprise. “I believe she is a little better.”

Sir Geralt nods once. “I am very glad to hear it.”

From beyond, Sabrina squeals again as Geralt moves away from the couch and over to a desk by the wall, pulling out a pen and inkwell from the drawer.

“Oh, Istredd, I am quite undone,” Tissaia admits.

The man laughs. “Should have played the deuce.”

“He has undone us all, Sir Geralt,” Sabrina whines, and by all the gods, her voice is starting to grate on Jaskier’s nerves.

Yennefer looks over. “Will you join us now, Master Julian?”

“I thank you, no,” he says again, but closes his book when it’s evident more questions are forthcoming.

“Your distraction is so great that you still prefer reading to cards, do you?” Istredd asks mockingly. “Singular.”

“Oh, Master Julian despises cards,” Sabrina adds with a stilted smile. “He is a great reader, and has no pleasure in anything but.”

Jaskier sets down his book completely, managing to hold his composure for now. “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” he retaliates calmly. “I am not a great reader, and take pleasure in many things.”

It would seem no one has an answer to that, for the silence is only broken when Tissaia turns in her seat, looking to Sir Geralt.

“And what do you do so secretly, sir?” she queries, and Geralt turns when no one replies.

“It is no secret,” he responds. “I am writing to my ward.”

Jaskier barely has the time to register that Sir Geralt, of all people, has a ward, before the others grow involved.

“Oh, dear Cirilla!” Tissaia exclaims happily. “How I long to see her again.”

“Is she grown much since the spring?” Sabrina questions. “Is she as tall as me now?”

“A little taller, perhaps,” Geralt answers a moment later. “She is now about half a foot shorter than Master Julian, I believe.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lady Yennefer grins, but the others seem to want to change the topic back to being under their control, which Jaskier does not like particularly, but it’s better than trying to puzzle out the taller man at the desk.

“And so accomplished,” Sabrina is gushing. “Her performance at the pianoforte is exquisite. Do you play, Master Julian?”

“I do,” he answers coolly. “Though I much prefer the lute.”

“Ah, but all young men these days are accomplished,” Yennefer states, the knowing grin still on her face. “They sing, they draw, they fence and dance, speak Elder, and I know not what else.”

Geralt hums. “There are not half a dozen who would satisfy my notion of an accomplished man.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, but Istredd beats him to the chase.

“Oh, certainly,” he agrees. “No man can really be deemed accomplished who does not also possess a certain something in his air in the manner of walking, in the tone of his voice, his address and expressions.”

“And to all this he must yet add something more substantial in the improvement of his mind by extensive reading.”

This time, Jaskier manages to reply first. “I am no longer surprised at you knowing only six accomplished men, Sir Geralt,” he comments. The man puts down his pen and turns to look at him, making Jaskier smirk. “I wonder at you knowing any.”

“You are very severe upon your sex, Master Julian,” Tissaia remarks, watching him steadily.

“I must speak as I find.”

“Perhaps you have not had the advantage, Master Julian, of moving in society enough,” Sabrina suggests, an edge to her voice. “There are many very accomplished young men amongst our acquaintance.”

Jaskier stares back at her, face expressionless. “Perhaps.”

Sabrina looks down, and Istredd starts to deal a new hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay - I love Sense and Sensibility and Geralt just gives me Colonel Brandon vibes - I know it's a different Jane Austen novel but I couldn't resist a little overlap!
> 
> Anyways, I hope you all like this, especially getting the idiots together a bit more. The next update will be the same time on Sunday!


	5. Chapter 5

Jaskier knows that his mother is not the most pleasant of women. She tries to pretend she is, probably is even convinced of it herself, but she’s a gossip and a nag and he knows that there are a lot of people who don’t like her. He can’t help but love her - he is her son, after all - but he unfortunately can’t deny that she’s exceedingly unpopular with certain groups of people.

Right now, he hears Sabrina and Istredd mocking her from the drawing room as he waits to greet her, and even Lady Yennefer, who’s standing beside him, winces. 

“I do not think she’ll stay long,” Jaskier tells her, suddenly overcome with the need to apologise for his mother’s antagonising and wholly uninvited presence. “Likely just to check in on Triss.”

Yennefer looks at him with something akin to pity shining in her purple eyes. “It’s quite alright,” she assures him. “Though, perhaps, we should keep her away from the others?”

Jaskier’s mouth lifts into a small smile. “I believe that would be wise, my lady.”

They turn to the door as the carriage rumbles to a halt, Mrs. Pankratz emerging a moment later and bustling up the stairs. Behind her, Shani and Priscilla follow in her wake, and Jaskier closes his eyes in exasperation. Of course she decided to bring his sisters along.

“Mrs. Pankratz,” Yennefer greets, handling the situation with more grace than he is able to muster. “You are very welcome.” She bows her head when the woman and her daughters curtsey. “I hope you do not find Mistress Triss worse than you expect.”

“You are too kind, my lady,” Mrs. Pankratz gushes, and Jaskier sighs.

“Mother, I’ll take you to her room,” he says, gesturing up to the stairs. She shoots him a glare, but thankfully Yennefer is on his side.

“An excellent idea,” the lady agrees. “You can visit with her without any interruptions. I will wait to speak to you when you are ready to depart.”

Jaskier could almost hug her, shooting her a grateful look as he ushers his mother up the steps, herding her and his sisters into Triss’ room before slumping against the door, unsure as to how much time passes as he stays in that position. He winces as a particularly shrill laugh rings out from the inside, lifting a hand to his head to cradle it and stave off the impending migraine he fears is slowly but steadily coming on.

“Are you quite well?”

Jaskier scrambles back into an upright position, pushing the hair out of his eyes and blinking at the man in front of him.

“Indeed, sir, yes,” he replies once he’s got his wits about him. “I apologise. The strain of the past couple days must have gotten to me.”

Sir Geralt hums, eyes flicking to the wall when there’s another laugh from inside. “Understandable.”

“May I extend my apologies for infringing on all of your privacy,” Jaskier tries, swallowing. “We hope to be able to depart by the end of the week.”

That gives him two days, which is all he’s going to be able to wrangle, as he’s sure his mother will insist Triss stay at least another night. Yesterday, though, she had seemed to be feeling much better, so no matter what his mother attempts he’ll insist upon leaving the day after tomorrow at the latest.

Surprisingly, Sir Geralt doesn’t seem to be as annoyed as he’s been previously. “I am not inconvenienced.”

He shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t, but the question slips out before Jaskier manages to stop it.

“Do you not find our company insupportable?”

Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up, and Jaskier bites his tongue so hard that he thinks he tastes blood. Thankfully, before the other man is able to launch an order for him to vacate the estate immediately – and rightfully so after that comment – Lady Yennefer and Madam Tissaia round the corner at the end of the hall, coming to a stop when they reach the two men.

They both seem to notice the tension instantly, Tissaia glancing between them before shaking her head. Yennefer, however, appears to be desperately trying not to laugh at the glower that’s settled over Geralt’s features. She doesn’t fully succeed, clamping a hand over her mouth when she snorts. Geralt’s frown only deepens.

“Will your mother be finished soon, do you think?” Tissaia inquires in an attempt to diffuse the obviously strained atmosphere. 

“I do not know, Madam,” Jaskier answers, glancing back at the door because he knows that his mother would want to stay as long as possible, and that’s a situation he would prefer to avoid. “I shall check on her now.”

To be honest, he’s more than happy to duck through the door and escape the hall, cheeks still tinged pink from embarrassment at actually sassing Sir Geralt, no matter how little he likes the man. If Lady Yennefer and Madam Tissaia hadn’t arrived when they did, he’s not quite sure what would have happened.

Inside the room, Triss is smiling indulgently at her sisters as they ramble about whatever trivial happenings they deem important from the past few days, relaying them back to her unintelligibly as they interrupt and speak over each other, their mother just as bad as them.

“Mother, are you ready to depart?” he asks, wandering over closer to the bed. Triss looks at him gratefully, but his mother glares.

“Depart?” she repeats angrily. “We’ve only just arrived!”

Jaskier resists the urge to roll his eyes. “The doctor said Triss needs quiet,” he tries to explain. “And she wants to stop the risk of it spreading. You wouldn’t want Shani or Priscilla to get sick, would you?”

He raises an eyebrow and waits imperiously in the way he’s learnt to do in the many years of dealing with his family, ignoring the way she continues to scowl.

“Fine,” she snaps after a moment. “Ready yourselves, girls.”

They hurry around, grabbing their various shawls and hats.

Jaskier scoots up a little closer to Triss. She’s gained most of her colour back, but especially after the visit from her family she still looks tired and bit worse for wear.

“You’re going to pay for that later, Jask,” she warns softly.

He sighs. “I know.” Leaning down to press a kiss to her brow, he moves from his place to head back to the door. “Rest some more. Mother, Shani, Priscilla – are you ready?”

“If we must be,” Mrs. Pankratz huffs, but steps out when he opens the door. “Ah, Lady Yennefer, Madam Tissaia.”

Jaskier notices that she purposefully leaves out Sir Geralt, but he can’t find it in himself to bring it up, still a little uneasy from the conversation earlier.

“Mrs. Pankratz,” Lady Yennefer acknowledges her. “Do you find your daughter well?”

“Oh, she is a good daughter indeed, to take this so well,” Mrs. Pankratz responds, and Jaskier fixes his eyes about mid-height on the far wall to avoid looking anywhere in Sir Geralt’s general direction. “But she is still a great deal too ill to be moved. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”

Yennefer’s smile seems a little tight, and he can’t blame her. “But of course.”

“Miss Pankratz will receive every possible attention, Ma’am, I assure you,” Tissaia adds.

Mrs. Pankratz simpers. “You are very good.” Behind her, Shani and Priscilla – who have been acting surprisingly appropriately – giggle. “Well, you have a sweet room here. I think you will never want to leave Vengerburg, now you are come here.”

“I believe I should be happy to live in the country forever,” Yennefer admits, turning her sly gaze on her friend. “Wouldn’t you, Geralt?”

Jaskier avoids looking at him, but he can easily imagine the way his brows would raise at the barb.

“You would?” he asks incredulously. “You don’t find the society somewhat confined and unvarying for your taste?”

“Confined and unvarying?” Mrs. Pankratz repeats. Jaskier closes his eyes. “Indeed it is not, sir! The country is a vast deal pleasanter than town, whatever you may say about it!”

Annoyed, her son opens his eyes just as Geralt stalks past him to one of the windows at the end of the hall, turning his back to the rest of the group.

“Mother, you mistake Sir Geralt’s meaning,” Jaskier says in an attempt to right the conversation.

“Do I?” his mother retorts, and the rest of the room is starting to look uncomfortable. “Do I, now? He seems to think the country nothing at all.”

“Mother…”

“Confined, unvarying,” she scoffs, not paying her son’s warnings any heed. “I would have him know we dine with four-and-twenty families!”

Yennefer looks like she’s trying not to laugh, and even Shani seems to notice the predicament.

“Ellen and Essi send their regards,” she reports in a commendable effort to change the topic. “They called yesterday with their father.”

“Yes, Sir Daven. What an agreeable man he is. That is my idea of good breeding.” Jaskier pinches the bridge of his nose at his mother’s words, sparing a glance at Sir Geralt, whose shoulders have tensed more than before. “And those persons who fancy themselves very important, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.”

“Essi has written some lovely poetry,” Shani adds, still attempting to diffuse the situation. “It is not as fine as yours, Jaskier, but I believe you should like it all the same.”

”I imagine I should,” he responds, still trying to keep a hold of the conversation even as he struggles not to add to the tension. “Though Ellen’s is not so good, and tends to leave people wishing for less. I wonder who first discovered the power of poetry in driving away love?”

Lady Yennefer quirks a brow. “I thought that poetry was the food of love.”

”Of a fine stout love, it may,” Jaskier concedes. “But if it is only a vague inclination I'm convinced one poor sonnet will kill it stone dead.”

Geralt grunts from his spot by the window. “So what do you recommend to encourage affection?”

Jaskier levels a gaze at the man, one that he’s sure he notices, irritation spiking. “Dancing,” he replies testily. “Even if one's partner is barely tolerable.”

By now, Priscilla has made note of the unpleasant air, and the fact that she speaks up shocks Jaskier into realising that it’s definitely bad.

“Um, Lady Yennefer, did you not promise to give a ball at Vengerburg as soon as you were settled here?” she prompts, standing her ground when the lady turns her striking violet eyes onto her. “It will be a great scandal if you do not keep your word.”

Yennefer nods, kinder and less smug than she had been. “I am perfectly ready to keep my engagement,” she assures her. “And when your sister is recovered, you shall name the day of the ball, if you please.”

Priscilla preens, all proud smiles.

“Oh, there now, Priscilla!” Mrs. Pankratz beams. “That’s a fair promise. That’s generosity for you, what I call polite behaviour.”

Jaskier sighs.

* * *

The next morning Triss appears to be faring much better, and although Jaskier is keen to leave, Lady Yennefer insists they stay for one more day in the interest of ensuring Triss is well and truly stable enough to travel. Reluctantly, he agrees, leaving his sister to continue her rest and venturing out onto the estate to escape the house.

The grounds are quiet, as it’s early in the morning, and more than ever Jaskier wishes he had his lute to be able to play. Instead he meanders along the path, finding some trees that just beg to be climbed, and so up he goes.

It’s mostly muscle memory that keeps him from falling. The branches are close together and sturdy, but he’s not actively done this in a while and it’s much different in a tailcoat than in just a shirt and breeches, as he was often wont to do when he was younger. Regardless, it’s a fairly straightforward task and he manages to climb far enough into the foliage that he fancies he’s invisible to the path below.

Settling in on a thick branch, Jaskier leans back into the trunk and closes his eyes, not intent on sleeping but needing a moment’s respite to be able to actually think.

Yesterday had been a disaster, no point in denying it. His mother is like a whirlwind, and he was extremely lucky to have been able to usher her out of the house. He had, initially, been intent on apologising to Sir Geralt for her behaviour (and maybe just a little bit, his own), but the man had scarpered and made himself scarce the rest of the day, and he would prefer not to have that conversation while the others were in the room.

This morning, at least, he was able to forgo seeing anyone else other than Lady Yennefer and a few servants before he slipped out of the house.

He sighs, tilting his head back against the tree a little harder than would be recommended, but his migraine was still ever-present and he figured nothing at this point could make it worse.

Jaskier has no idea how long he’s been up in the tree moping – for lack of a better word – when the silence of the area around him is shattered by a loud bark, followed by insistent panting. Confused, he opens his eyes and looks down.

The dog is large, a hunting dog by the looks of it, and well-groomed enough that it’s not a stray. Probably one of Lady Yennefer’s then.

“Hello there,” he calls down, sliding off of his branch and descending carefully, brushing himself off once his feet are safely back on solid ground. “What are you doing out here?”

The dog, unsurprisingly, doesn’t respond.

It does wag its tail, pushing up against Jaskier’s legs and wiggling a little when he leans down to pet it, running his fingers through the soft fur on the animal’s side.

“You’re a sweet thing,” he comments, scratching behind the dog’s ear. It barks as if in agreement and then scampers a few yards away, turning and barking at him. “What?” Jaskier asks, straightening. “Do you want me to follow you?”

The dog barks again, scuffling and spreading its front legs playfully.

“Oh, I get it,” he laughs, running after the dog, stopping when it easily dodges his lunge. “You want to play, don’t you?”

The dog barks again and Jaskier grins, breathing in before chasing after the animal, which seems delighted by the development. It scurries ahead, always ducking out of the way just on time, until eventually they’ve made it back to the side of the house, to a strip of grass alongside it.

Here, the dog finds a piece of rope and immediately snatches it up.

Decidedly more cheered than he’d been earlier, Jaskier manages to grasp the other end of the rope before the dog can pull it out of reach, thus sparking a friendly game of tug-and-war. 

He’s grinning the whole time, he’s sure, and these trousers are most likely going to be ruined too by the end of this whole endeavour. Ah, well. Priscilla is always up for a trip to the seamstress, maybe he’ll be able to convince her to accompany him into town to order some new pairs.

The dog gives a sharp pull and Jaskier trips, pulled off balance and sent careening to the ground with a small thud. He chuckles, pushing himself back up and pushing the hair out of his face, looking towards the dog when he feels a strange sort of sensation, the type of feeling one gets when they’re being watched.

He looks up just in time to see a figure move away from one of the windows – a bedroom that one of Lady Yennefer’s company is staying in, if he’s got his positioning right. He waits for a moment, watching, but the figure doesn’t return and the dog is whining impatiently. 

“Alright, alright.” He sighs, turning back to it, immediately lunging for the other end of the rope. 

* * *

Jaskier is jealous of Triss.

It’s not a new thing, he’s been jealous of her before, but never more so than right now when she’s resting upstairs and he’s in the parlour having to play polite with the others. He wishes he were the sick one. 

Instead, he’s stuck in a room that he feels wholly uncomfortable in. Lady Yennefer appears to be dozing in her armchair, Istredd and Sabrina on the couch beside her as they play a hand of cards. Jaskier is reading, and, to his annoyance, Sir Geralt is sitting across from him doing exactly the same. Only Tissaia is moving about, her own book in hand as she wanders around the edge of the room.

Once, Sabrina leans in her seat to try and catch a glimpse of what Sir Geralt is reading, only to huff as he shifts away without even sparing her a glance. Jaskier hides his smirk behind his own volume.

He looks up, though, when a shadow falls over his reading material, straight up into the eyes of Madam Tissaia. She’s kind and well-mannered, he knows, but she still does not fail to send a shiver up his spine.

“Master Julian,” she addresses him. “Let me persuade you to follow my example and escort me to take a turn about the room. I’m sure you’ll find it quite refreshing.”

Jaskier swallows, but he knows a veiled command when he sees one. Gingerly, he sets his book down next to his seat and stands, offering the lady his arm and letting her lead him around in the same pattern she had been moving about earlier.

“Will you not join us, Sir Geralt?” she asks when they pass by his couch, and Jaskier has to look heavenward to plead for some divine patience. Luckily, the man seems disinclined to acquiesce.

“That would defeat the object,” he answers simply.

Jaskier still doesn’t quite know how to read the woman on his arm, but he can tell that she’s intrigued.

“Well, what do you mean, sir?” she ponders, looking to him curiously. “What can he mean?”

“I think we would do better not to inquire,” Jaskier suggests, arching a brow when the man looks at him.

“No, we must know,” Tissaia presses, looking to the man with a cool expression that seems to always know what they’re going to hear before they do. “We insist on knowing your meaning, sir.”

Sir Geralt closes his book, face blank. “Why, that your figures appear to best advantage when walking,” comes his steady response. “And that I might best admire them from my present position.”

Sabrina and Istredd laugh, but Jaskier just watches with a calm expression. He’s fairly sure he at least slightly understands the man’s game, now. Lady Yennefer, he’s noticed, has quit her pretence of resting and is watching the proceedings closely, sharp eyes flitting between the three main players.

“Oh, shocking,” Tissaia exclaims when the laughter has quieted down. “Abominable reply. How shall we punish him, Master Julian?”

Jaskier chuckles, a little more confident now that he knows the man plays to keep all the cards in front of him, to never be caught unexpected. “Nothing so easy,” he decides. “Tease him, perhaps. Make fun. Laugh at him.”

They come to a halt in front of the man’s couch, golden eyes flickering up to rest on Jaskier as Tissaia lets go of his arm.

“Laugh at Sir Geralt?” she repeats, voice still even. “Impossible. He is a man without fault.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows. “Is he indeed?” he wonders. “A man without fault?”

“That is not possible for anyone,” Sir Geralt grunts. “But it has been my study to avoid those weaknesses, which expose a strong understanding to ridicule.”

“Such as… vanity, perhaps?” Jaskier muses innocently. “Hmm, and pride?”

The man hums. “Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed.” He shifts on the couch, angling himself so that his golden eyes more easily meet Jaskier’s blue ones. “But pride – where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will always be under good regulation.”

Yennefer lets out what sounds like a strangled cough, and Jaskier’s lips twitch up, triumphant.

“I have faults enough, Master Julian,” Sir Geralt says quickly. “But I hope they are not of understanding. My temper I cannot vouch for, it might be called resentful. Mu good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.”

“That is a failing indeed,” Jaskier concedes. “But I cannot laugh at it.”

“I believe every disposition has a tendency to some particular evil.”

“Your defect is a propensity to hate everyone.”

“While yours is wilfully to misunderstand them.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to retort, but Sabrina is there before he can.

“Shall we have some music?” she announces loudly, setting down her cards and bustling to the pianoforte, sitting down and playing a quick tune.

Geralt stares back at Jaskier a moment longer, before Tissaia steps between them and the moment shatters.

* * *

“Give your parents my warmest salutations,” Lady Yennefer instructs the next morning, holding out her hand to help Triss into the carriage Jaskier is already sitting in. “And tell your father he’s most welcome to come shooting with us anytime convenient.”

Triss smiles softly, accepting the hand. “Thank you, my lady, you are very kind.”

Yennefer beams. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Triss responds quietly, and her happy expression is one that Jaskier knows he’ll pull out to tease her about later.

Stepping back from the carriage, the lady takes one last look at Triss, before addressing the coachman. “Drive on, Roster,” she instructs, lifting her hand in a farewell gesture as the vehicle rolls down the drive.

“Oh, Triss,” Jaskier sighs once they’re out of earshot. “I’m sorry to say it, but notwithstanding your excellent Lady Yennefer, I’ve never been so happy to leave a place in my life.”

Triss is still smiling, but she nods slightly and picks up her brother’s hand, squeezing it and then leaning back against the seat. Jaskier shakes his head, turning to look at the passing scenery as they make their way home.

Back inside the building, the others are still finishing up their breakfast.

Geralt stands at the window, eyes watching the carriage move down through the estate towards the main road, his cup of tea forgotten on the sill.

“Oh, how pleasant it is to have one’s house to oneself again,” Sabrina declares, sitting back in her chair. “But I fear Sir Geralt is mourning the loss of Master Julian Pankratz’ pert opinions and fine eyes.”

Her tone has a waspish edge to it and Geralt’s eye twitches at the implication, but he doesn’t bother to turn around or move back to his own seat.

He hums, reaching down to collect his neglected teacup. “Quite the contrary, I assure you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you all go! Got some more Jaskier sass in this one... the next chapter will be up this time on Tuesday, but for now I hope you enjoy this one!


	6. Chapter 6

It’s been a couple weeks since the disastrous trip to Vengerburg when Mr. Pankratz pulls out a letter during their afternoon meal. “I hope, my dear, that you have ordered a good dinner today,” he announces suddenly, drawing all eyes to him as he unfolds the piece of parchment. “For I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.”

His wife claps delightedly. “Lady Yennefer!” she exclaims, nodding at her eldest daughter. “Why, Triss, you sly thing! You never dropped a word!”

Jaskier looks to his side, raising his eyebrows at his sister who looks just as confused as he is.

“Oh, and not a bit of fish to be got, oh gods,” their mother starts moping. “Shani, my love, ring the bell. I must speak with the cook directly.” 

Shani nods eagerly, springing to her feet and heading to the door.

“It is not Lady Yennefer,” Mr. Pankratz says, stopping his second youngest in her tracks. Five sets of blank eyes look at him, and he shifts. “It is a person I’ve only spoken to once in the whole course of my life.”

Priscilla gasps. “General Vilgefortz!”

“Captain Havart!” Shani chimes in.

“No, I know – Devlin!” Both girls giggle, their mother joining in until Mr. Pankratz shoots them all a glare. Shani immediately sits back down.

“About a month ago I received this letter,” he continues, waving the page to show it off. “And about a fortnight ago, I answered it, for I thought it was a case of some delicacy and requiring early attention.”

Jaskier snorts, and he’s sure Triss smiles.

“It is from my nephew, Mr. Ferrant, who when I am dead may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.”

“Oh, my dear, pray don’t mention that odious man,” Mrs. Pankratz groans. “I think it the hardest thing in the world that your estate should be entailed away from your own poor children.”

Her husband looks at her. “Indeed, my dear, nothing can clear Mr. Ferrant of the iniquitous crime of inheriting the estate that was his father’s long before it was mine,” he reminds her. “But if you will listen to his letter, you may be softened by his manner of expressing himself.”

She still seems displeased, Jaskier thinks, but she sniffs and motions for him to continue regardless.

“My dear sir,” he begins to read. “The disagreements subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the misfortune to lose him – “ Priscilla giggles, silenced by a stern look from her father. “ – To lose him,” he repeats. “I have frequently wished to heal the breach. My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having received my instigation at Beltane, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Count Sigismund Dijkstra, whose bounty and…”

Jaskier tunes out, already convinced from the first few sentences that the man writing has no flair for words or any capability with prose. He glances as Triss, who is still dutifully listening to their father. His younger sisters, however, are far less subtle.

Across the table, Priscilla sees him watching and immediately sticks her tongue out at him. Bored, and with no real care for how he presents himself amongst his family, he copies her. She giggles, Shani rolling her eyes beside her.

“…from whence I shall engage a hired carriage to transport me to Lettenhove,” their father’s voice slowly drifts back in. Jaskier sighs, leaning back in his chair and trying to assemble the pieces of his concentration. “Where, the Goddess willing, you may expect me by six in the evening.” The man looks up at his family. “Well?”

“Oh, Mr. Pankratz, it’s barely five hours until six!” his wife scolds, standing immediately. “I must go inform the housekeeper at once!”

Taking it as a good time to leave, Shani and Priscilla scoot out their chairs and excuse themselves quickly.

“I have no idea where they get that from,” Jaskier declares, nose in the air.

Triss snorts. “Oh, don’t you?”

“I seem to recall a rather costly incident at the inn in town,” Mr. Pankratz muses, voice sharp but eyes twinkling with mirth. “You wouldn’t have been much older than Shani, if I recall correctly.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure,” Triss deadpans. “And you acquired your priceless lute by magic, did you?”

Jaskier winces at the memory. “Alright, maybe not quite.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Well, children,” their father begins, rising from his chair with a small smile on his face that’s usually reserved just for them. “Your mother is in a panic – not that that’s unusual – so I find myself quite in need of some afternoon, ahem, medicine. I shall be in my study if you need me.”

“Of course, Father,” Triss replies smoothly, watching him as he slips out the door same as the others, before turning to her brother. “This Mr. Ferrant seems needlessly ensconced with his dear patron.”

Jaskier grins. “A few weeks ago, you were needlessly ensconced with a certain lady at Vengerburg Park.”

“I was sick,” Triss retorts. “And you were there too, I recall. Tell me, just how many conversations did you have with Sir Geralt alone?”

“How dare you,” Jaskier gasps overdramatically. “That man is the bane of my existence, I assure you. He is rude, and prideful, and arrogant – he called me an idiot to my face, did I tell you? And yes, alright, maybe he helped me take you back to the house, but I could have managed! There was no need for all of those curt comments at every turn.”

Triss hums. “And I’m sure you did nothing to instigate those.”

“I’ll admit, I did craft my own insult or two,” he concedes, but his tone is smug. He does remember some of his barbs, and he’s still quite proud of them, actually. “But despite all of that. He is the most horrid, unfeeling, supercilious – “

“Of course,” Triss says patronisingly, patting his hand.

Jaskier splutters as she moves away from her seat and towards the door. “Wha- wait, Triss, you witch! Get back here!”

* * *

The sound of wheels and horses moving over the gravel in their drive informs him that their guest has arrived, and Jaskier groans as he remembers the imminent invasion of their house. From her place on the settee beside him, Triss glances over with mirth sparkling in her eyes.

“Is that a normal headache you have, dear brother?” she queries, voice deceptively innocent. “Or did you partake in some of Father’s ‘medicine’ this afternoon?”

Jaskier puts his book over his face, blocking his sight so he doesn’t have to look at her teasing expression. “If I had, I would still be pleasantly buzzed enough not to be dreading this ordeal.” Triss snatches the book away, and he lunges for it. “Hey!”

“Stop acting like a child,” she admonishes, placing the book to the side and standing up, smoothing out any wrinkles in her dress. “You’re nearing twenty, now, you need to learn to behave properly.”

Her brother shoots her a lopsided grin from his sprawled position on the settee. “I learnt from the best.”

Triss huffs, rolling her eyes, but the small smile on her face is fond as she hauls him to his feet. “And I regret that every day.”

“Aw, don’t fret on my behalf,” Jaskier coos. “I’ve turned out quite well, I believe. I can best you at any word composition or instrument.”

“A trophy well deserved,” Triss agrees, straightening his tailcoat and fixing the buttons. “Now come. And as for your word compositions, need I bring up the incident Father referred to earlier?”

Jaskier winces, falling into step behind her as they go to join the rest of their family. “I won that competition; I’ll have you know.”

“Yes, you did,” his sister freely admits. “However, I don’t believe that penning uncouth ballads to sing to drunk workmen will necessarily win you a desirable match in life.”

“That’s what you believe,” he shoots back, voice considerably quieter now that they’re in range of the rest of their family, all standing before the house to watch the carriage approach. Triss sends him a satisfied look once they’re beside their parents, one that he studiously ignores.

“Here he comes,” their father sighs, a hint of remorse in his tone.

Shani cocks her head. “But he must be an oddity, don’t you think?”

“Well, if he’s disposed to make our children any amends, I shan’t be the person to discourage him,” Mrs. Pankratz declares, and Jaskier immediately decides that he needs to avoid her matchmaking even more fervently from now on.

“Can he be a sensible man, sir?” he asks, in an attempt to change the subject.

His father chuckles. “Oh, I think not, my boy. Indeed, I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse.”

The carriage rumbles to a halt, the door flying open. The man to emerge is somewhat different to the weaselly figure Jaskier had been expecting – instead, the man is well-dressed in black, his sideburns and hair the same colour as his clothing. There’s a scar over his right eyebrow, he notices, as the man approaches their family group smoothly.

“Mr. Ferrant,” their father greets, stepping forward and extending a hand for the man to shake. “You are very welcome.”

The man grasps the proffered hand with what appears to be slightly too much force. “Mr. and Mrs. Pankratz,” he returns, and Jaskier swears there’s something off in the too-neat smile that he flashes. “How kind of you to let me stay.”

“But of course,” Mr. Pankratz responds diplomatically. “You are family, after all. Come, the servants will take your things to your room.”

“Thank you.”

There’s definitely something off to the man, and Jaskier looks to see if Triss has caught it. She’s smiling at their guest demurely, but he knows her well enough to catch the miniscule flash of concern than flickers through her eyes.

“You’re just in time to join us for dinner,” their mother exclaims, stepping back to usher their guest inside. “Come, come. You must be starving after your journey.”

“I must admit, I find myself quite peckish,” the man laughs, not looking at the maid taking his coat. “But I was determined to press on.”

Mrs. Pankratz nods, leading him to the dining room which has been set accordingly, their guest between the eldest children’s seats. He knew it would happen, it’s how the placement is arranged when they have a single guest, but Jaskier’s suddenly regretting not contesting that just this once. There’s something wrong and he can’t quite lay his finger on it.

The whole meal, despite his concerns, seems to go without a hitch. Mr. Ferrant seems charming, and appears to win over the rest of his family with his collected manner, though there is a strange sort of devotion in him. 

“You seem… well, very… fortunate in your patron, sir,” their father remarks, seemingly having picked up on the hint of overstated loyalty to the man.

“Count Sigismund Dijkstra, yes,” Ferrant confirms, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “Indeed I am, sir. I have been treated with such affability, such condescension, as I would never have dared hope for. I have been invited twice to dine at Tretogor Park.”

Jaskier hastily takes a sip of his wine so as not to laugh. Alright, perhaps he miscalculated – the man might just be odd, like Shani had suggested. Not every stranger is a monster in disguise.

His father glances at him, the corner of his mouth twitching, though he retains his composure. “Is that so? Wonderful.”

“Does he live near you, sir?” his mother inquires, looking over with genuine curiosity.

“The garden, in which stands my humble abode, is separated only by a lane from Tretogor Park,” Ferrant replies, almost wistfully.

Not just a strange devotion, then. An utter and complete manic devotion.

“Only a lane, eh?” Mr. Pankratz repeats, and he glances at his son again, spotting his poorly-concealed amusement. “Well, fancy that, Julian.”  
Jaskier sets down his spoon, determinedly staring at a patch on the wall.

“I think you said he was a widower, sir?” his mother saves him. “Has he any family?”

“He has a daughter, Ma’am,” comes the answer. “The heiress of Tretogor, and of very extensive property. With him also lives his great friend, Lady Philippa Eilhart.”

Mrs. Pankratz nods. “And has his daughter been presented at court?”

“She has indeed,” Ferrant responds. “Though but once. Count Sigismund often has business away from the capital, and prefers his daughter to be with him as often as possible. His business unhappily prevents him from being too often in town with her, and by that means, as I told him myself, he was depriving the Redanian court of its brightest member. The king himself favours the count very much.”

“A lovely compliment indeed,” Mrs. Pankratz sighs.

“But a fitting one, I assure you,” their guest guarantees. “You may imagine, sir, how happy I am on every occasion to offer those compliments which ae always acceptable to young persons.”

There’s something sharp in his smile again, but the words that accompany it are too comical for Jaskier to pay it much heed at the moment. After all, the man appears to be harmless, albeit relatively simple for Jaskier’s tastes.

“It is fortunate for you, Mr. Ferrant, that you possess such an extraordinary talent for flattering with delicacy.” Mr. Pankratz’ voice is surprisingly even, though his eyes betray his amusement. “May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are they the result of previous study?”

This time, Jaskier can’t stop the snicker that escapes him. Even Triss allows herself a small smile.

“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, sir,” Ferrant assures him. “Pre-described words may not be easily adapted to ordinary occasions. I try to give them as unstudied an air as possible.”

Mr. Pankratz nods to himself. “I see. Excellent.”

The smarmy smile that had been ever-present on Mr. Ferrant’s lips widens a little, and he looks towards Triss, who avoids his gaze by looking down at her water until the man turns back. Immediately, Jaskier stiffens, all mirth forgotten at the predatory edge to the man’s grin.

He tries to speak to Triss of his suspicions that evening, but she just brushes them off as paranoia.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Jask,” she sighs, allowing him to brush through her unruly hair. “I’m sure he is. There is a strange air to him, I will admit, but I’m sure that’s all it is. He will be fine, if a touch inconvenient, you’ll see.”

Jaskier parses his lips doubtfully, but says nothing.

* * *

The next day shines bright and clear, and they all take to the garden after luncheon, eager to spend some time out of the house. A little down the flowerbeds, Mr. Ferrant is talking to their mother, though with Mrs. Pankratz doing the majority of the speaking herself he deems it less worrisome, though he’s still keeping an eye on the man. It’s a bit difficult when Triss is regaling him with a tale the doctor had told her that morning when she’d gone to help the woman with her salves.

“Apparently the poor man had thought that buttercups were just as good a yellow flower as any, so he didn’t even bother to check that they weren’t celandine.” She shakes her head at the thought, drawing Jaskier’s attention back to her. “They’re lovely, yes, and resilient, but also quite poisonous! I’m not sure what he was thinking.”

“Of me, I’d imagine,” Jaskier drawls, spinning a sprig of lavender between his fingers as Triss adds more trimmings to her basket to restock her wares. “I’ve such a lovely face, I’m sure he saw the buttercups and couldn’t resist.”

Triss rolls her eyes. “Naturally,” she chuckles. “Though you tend to pick apart one’s ego rather than physically best them. Perhaps we should change your nickname. Dandelion, maybe?”

“Dandelions are weeds,” Jaskier scoffs, insulted. “I am _not_ a weed.”

“Buttercups are too, you recall,” Triss points out, then laughs at the resulting curse. “You’re a weed whether you like it or not. Though, I must admit, you’ve had your name almost your whole life now. It wouldn’t do to change it at this point, I couldn’t possibly learn a new one.”

Jaskier glances at her. “You won’t change it because you’re too lazy?”

“Hmm, partially,” she confesses, smiling. “It does suit you. You’re bright, and lovely, but have a sharp bite.”

“I’m pleased to see you’ve noticed.”

“How could I not? You’re sharp enough when you have your wits about you.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“Do with it as you please,” Triss says airily. “Your name is yours, and I think it fits. Regardless, could you please stop fiddling with my stalks? If you’re going to be here, you could at least help.”

Jaskier sighs. “First you call me a weed, now you beg for my help?” His grin widens as a thought comes to him. “Appalling manners, my dear sister. You’ll never win over your Lady Yennefer like that.”

Luckily, before Triss can answer, a shadow falls over them. 

“We’re going into town,” Priscilla announces. “To look for Devlin and Vreemde. That’s alright, isn’t it, Mother?” The last part she directs over her shoulder.

The woman nods, waving a hand. “Yes, yes. Perhaps you would care for a little exercise, Mr. Ferrant?”

The man grins. “Indeed I would, Mrs. Pankratz.”

Unluckily, then.

* * *

For some reason, Ferrant decides to make the walk into town alongside Jaskier, who tries to stick as close to Triss as possible. On the bright side, the man has seemingly turned his attentions away from her, but he’s not so sure he likes them falling onto him instead. “You visit your aunt in town frequently I understand, cousin?” he asks, and the slight edge to his voice on the last word makes Jaskier wince to himself, veering a little closer to Triss on his next step.

“Yes, she is very fond of company,” he responds, keeping his voice light. “But I’m afraid you’ll find her gatherings poor affairs after the splendors of Tretogor Park.”

The man laughs, low in his throat. “Oh no, I think not,” he says, and it sounds as if he’s just carrying polite conversation. “I believe I possess the happy knack, much to be desired in an instigator, of adapting myself to every kind of society whether high or low.”

Alright, so the man isn’t an idiot. He’s smug, though, and perhaps a tad overconfident – both qualities Jaskier can exploit should his suspicions about the man’s character be proven correct.

“That is fortunate, indeed,” he agrees, but their guest is far from finished.

“Yes, indeed.” The self-satisfied smile is back with full force. “And though it is a gift of nature, constant study has enabled me, I flatter myself, to make a kind of art of it.” Jaskier grits his teeth and reaches blindly for Triss’ hand. Luckily, she grabs it and squeezes, silently offering support as Ferrant rambles on about his own worth and that of patron’s all the way to the outskirts of town, where Shani and Priscilla stop to gaze through the milliner’s window.

“There!” Shani proclaims, pointing at a hat that has a rather ostentatious feather sticking out from the brim. “I’m sure that is new in since Friday. Isn’t it nice? Do you think I’d look well in it?”

“Not as well as me,” Priscilla retorts, grabbing her sister’s hand to try and drag her back en route to the centre of town. “Come on.”

“No, I shan’t!” Shani tugs her arm out of her sister’s hold, spying her brother. “Jaskier, come here. Look at this.” Relieved to have an excuse to get away from Ferrant, he obliges. “Jaskier, I am determined to have this bonnet,” she declares, resolute in her tone.

Jaskier shakes his head. “If you were trying to go for the look of an overgrown aviary disaster, I would say it’s marvelous.”

“You have no sense of style, Jask.”

He throws a hand over his heart, gasping in mock outrage. “How dare you?” he cries. “I believe I have the best look out of all of us. Even Triss would agree, wouldn’t you, dear sister?”

Triss smiles over indulgently. “You certainly have a sense of style.”

“Alas, my entire family is against me, it would seem,” Jaskier bemoans, side-stepping to avoid Shani’s swipe at him. She’s still young, he has time enough to teach her how to hit properly.

“Look, there’s Devlin!” Priscilla says, grabbing Triss’ arm to make her look. 

Jaskier makes a face at Shani before they turn as well. “Where?”

“There, look!” she says, pointing to the far end of the street.

Shani cranes her neck to see. “Who’s that with him?”

Curious, Jaskier looks over and sees a man who appears to be exceedingly good-looking, and strong. Exactly his type, gods.

“He’s fearful handsome,” his older sister comments, and _damn_ it if that weren’t exactly what he was thinking. As is her way, she finishes the sentence with a sly wink at Jaskier, who doesn’t even bother to glare back.

“He might be if he were in regimentals,” Priscilla decides, shading her eyes from the sun to try and look closer. “I think a man looks nothing without regimentals.”

An interesting point, Jaskier concedes, though he’s willing to see a handsome man without them if they adhere to the rest of his tastes. Perhaps this mysterious stranger enjoys music.

“They’re looking over!” Shani hisses excitedly, but their youngest sister still has no sense of decorum and cups her hands to her mouth.

“Devlin!” she shouts, the noise ringing across the street as she waves.

“Priscilla!” Triss snaps, pulling the girl back. Jaskier would have reprimanded her himself, but he can’t deny that the tactic is effective, the two men heading straight towards them.

Priscilla laughs once they’re in hearing range. “What a fine joke, we thought you might still be at the barracks.”

Devlin salutes good-naturedly. “There was nothing amusing enough to hold us there,” he chuckles, then beckons his companion forward. “Allow me to introduce you to my good friend, Morvran Voorhis.”

The man takes off his hat, and _shit_ , he’s still attractive up close. Jaskier bows as his sisters curtsey, eyes going straight back to the newcomer’s face once he stands.

“Miss Pankratz, Master Julian, and Misses Shani and Priscilla,” Devlin introduces, pointing to each of them in turn.

“Welcome to Lettenhove, sir,” Triss says, smile slipping a fraction as she gestures behind her. “This is our cousin, Mr. Ferrant.” Jaskier’s good mood drops a little at the words, determinedly not looking at the man he’s momentarily forgotten about.

“Well met,” Mr. Voorhis says, grin broad and bright. “I’m honoured to meet you all.”

“Do you stay long in Lettenhove, Mr. Voorhis?” Jaskier asks, finally finding his voice again and surprisingly curious to know the answer.

The man nods. “All winter, I’m happy to say. I’ve taken a commission in General Vilgefortz’ regiment.”

Shani giggles. “There, Priscilla, he will be dressed in regimentals.”

“And lend them much distinction, I daresay,” Devlin adds. “Outshine us all, eh, Voorhis?”

“Devlin, you misinterpret me to these young people,” Mr. Voorhis laughs, and Jaskier’s brows go up. Modest, he can definitely work with that, and the looks aren’t a hindrance either.

“Shall you come with us to our aunt’s this evening, Mr. Voorhis?” Priscilla asks, and Jaskier’s never loved his sister’s lack of decorum more. “Devlin is coming, you know.”

“It’s only supper and cards, but we shall have some laughs,” Shani encourages.

The man smiles. “Well, if your aunt were to extend the invitation to include me, I should be delighted.” The two youngest girls giggle, a noise that increases in pitch when the sound of approaching horses rings out.

“Look, Triss, it’s Lady Yennefer,” Priscilla teases, and Triss blushes, but turns towards the riders all the same, Jaskier following her example when he sees the lady dismount easily to head their way.

“How very fortunate!” she exclaims, nodding politely and beaming at Triss. “Do you know, we were just on our way to your home to ask after your health!”

Triss flushes a deeper shade. “You are very kind, my lady. I am quite recovered, as you see.”

“Yes,” Lady Yennefer agrees emphatically, eyes raking over Triss’ form in obvious admiration. “I am _very_ glad to know it.”

Jaskier chuckles, looking up at the other rider. His smile immediately slips from his face as he meets the stern gaze of Sir Geralt, who’s looking straight at him. With as much indifference as he can muster, he arches a brow and meets his eyes steadily, holding them until the man huffs and looks away. Pleased, Jaskier turns back to his sister and Lady Yennefer.

“I hope you are still willing to come and have tea with us,” he offers, watching as her purple eyes flicker over to him. Over her shoulder, Sir Geralt catches sight of Mr. Voorhis as he turns, and freezes.

Yennefer smiles. “I shall be very happy to, Master Julian,” she replies easily, and once acknowledged Jaskier moves to look at Sir Geralt, who glares something fierce at Mr. Voorhis before resolutely turning his bay mare away to ride off. Mr. Voorhis seems resigned with the situation, and Jaskier immediately is determined to puzzle it out later. For now, he focuses again on the conversation.

“Have you plans this evening, my lady?” Triss is asking, and Jaskier’s proud of her initiative.

Lady Yennefer shakes her head. “None that I know off.”

“Perhaps you would like to join us for dinner at our aunt’s, then,” Triss invites, blushing more than Jaskier thought was physically possible when Lady Yennefer bends to place a kiss on the back of her hand, eyes sparkling as she straightens.

“I would be honoured.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some brother-sister bonding, and the introduction of our Mr. Collins and Mr. Wickham characters! The next chapter will be a bit of a filler, I'm afraid, but we will get to know both Ferrant and Voorhis a little better, and see some lovely Jaskier snark and Triss/Yennefer sweetness. 
> 
> BUT, Chapter 7 is the real one to look out for - everyone who's read or seen Pride and Prejudice knows about the infamous dance scene... and it's a good one! In the meantime, enjoy this one and the next one on Thursday!


	7. Chapter 7

It’s obvious to everyone in the room that Lady Yennefer is besotted, though Jaskier prides himself on the fact that he called it just over a month ago that night at the assembly rooms. Honestly, she’d danced three dances with Triss alone. Scandalous enough to shock the matrons of Lettenhove, but something tells him that Lady Yennefer does not care much for tradition or doing what others tell her.

The evening is calm and comfortable, the light supper his aunt had provided being informal enough for the guests to mingle, which seemed to suit his older sister just fine, especially when Yennefer promptly settled in to sit beside her. As promised, the meal is followed by a casual gathering, just the small group of them enthralled in various conversations or games.

“I must thank you once again for your kind hospitality,” Jaskier says, drawing Lady Yennefer’s attention back onto him, though he finds he can’t fault her for her distraction when he follows her gaze to find it settled on his sister. Triss had only been reluctantly parted from the lady in question, called away to play hostess with their aunt.

“There’s no need,” Yennefer assures him, waving a hand dismissively and fixing him those purple eyes of hers that seem to spark a little. “I would not hear of you attempting to travel back with your sister in such a state. Really, it was of no consequence to me.”

Jaskier smiles, and despite her unfortunate friends, finds himself admitting that he does well and truly like her. “Ah, but then surely the gratitude should be twice as much, for if it was of no consequence you truly went out of your way.”

Those purple eyes blink once, twice. A grin spreads slowly across the lady’s face. “You’re a clever one,” she notes, looking at him more carefully. “I suppose that’s why he likes you.”

“ _He_ likes me?” Jaskier repeats, frowning at her. “I’m sorry, _who_ likes me?”

Yennefer shrugs his query away. “It matters not. My, how ill that man looks.” She’s turned, watching as Mr. Ferrant chatters on to his sister and aunt, both of their faces politely blank. “He seems paler than most. Perhaps the country air does not sit well with him.”

“Indeed,” Jaskier agrees, determined to puzzle out her meaning later. “I’m afraid the climes of Lettenhove must not be as superior as Tretogor Park. That does not bode well for any prospective partners - the lack of a good constitution.”

“Oh, I like you,” Lady Yennefer laughs delightedly. “Your sister called you by a flower name, earlier. Tell me, is it poisonous enough to match your wicked tongue?”

“She called me Jaskier, my lady,” he replies, finding himself surprisingly comfortable in the woman’s presence. “A childhood nickname. It means ‘buttercup’, which is poisonous, as my sister was reminding me just this morning. Hopefully I have not insulted your delicate sensibilities, yet?”

She laughs again. “Hardly delicate, I assure you.” Her smile is contagious and Jaskier finds himself copying it. “Please, insult away. I heard your finely crafted ones at my estate, and I confess I’ve been dying for more.”

“My lady must excuse me, I’m afraid,” Jaskier grins. “We have already insulted my cousin, and there are no others more deserving in this room. Come into the town with me, and there I shall sing any insults you may desire.” He half expects her to say no, as sharp and put-together as she is, so her answer comes as a surprise.

“I should like that very much,” she says, nodding to herself. “Singing. If I remember correctly, you said you play the lute?”

Jaskier nods. “Many instruments with a passing grace, my lady, but the lute is indeed my favourite.”

Yennefer hums. “You should meet Ciri. She’s been wanting to learn her instruments, and I believe she’s particularly fond of stringed ones.”

He has no idea who Ciri is, but he knows a valuable opportunity when he sees one. Maybe Triss could come along and spend some time with her fair lady. Speaking of…

“I apologise for my absence,” Triss says as she approaches, curtseying slightly. Lady Yennefer’s smile brightens, and normally Jaskier would feel a little jealous or miffed, but he certainly does not begrudge his sister this. The seemingly ever-present blush that settles across her features every time Yennefer is around reminds him why.

“You had your duties,” Yennefer says, face bright. “How fares your aunt? I must remember to thank her for her kindness before I leave.”

“Mrs. du Rinde is fine,” Triss answers softly, and Jaskier glances over to find that perhaps she isn’t, mouth twisting into a grimace of distaste as Mr. Ferrant talks to her emphatically.

He sighs. “Lady Yennefer, sister, excuse me a moment.” He bows to them both, winking at Triss before turning to head over to his cousin and aunt, despite his lack of desire to be anywhere within ten feet of their guest. Maybe one day he’ll no longer have to be the one doing damage control. Ferrant is, unfortunately, technically family and as such would embarrass them by extension, though he thinks his aunt would not have borne it as badly as others.

“Ah, Julian,” Ferrant says as he nears, and Jaskier bristles a little at the informality. He’s not always the best at adhering to social graces, but the way the man says his name makes his spine shiver. “I was just telling Mrs. du Rinde how this reminds me of the small summer tea room at Tretogor Park.”

His aunt huffs, and Jaskier closes his eyes to calm himself for just a moment before trying to diffuse the situation. “Tretogor, we must understand, is a very fine estate,” he informs his aunt. “The residence of the great Count Sigismund Dijkstra.”

“I see,” Mrs. du Rinde says, although it’s clear that she doesn’t really. Thankfully, Ferrant seems to pick up on this and flashes her a charming smile.

“Oh, my dear lady. I am sorry, I appear to have caused offence.” His smile is a little too disarming. “I must explain myself. Tretogor Park is the grandest establishment I have seen, why, the fireplace in the main hall alone cost eight hundred crowns!”

Mrs. du Rinde settles at the words, the dark cloud over her evaporating quickly. “Oh, I understand,” she says, smiling back at him. “Of course, no offence was meant at all. Perhaps, in that case, you would like to join me for a game of Gwent?”

Ferrant bows slightly. “I would be delighted,” comes his quick reply, followed by a sly look at Jaskier. “That is, if my cousin sees fit to release me…?”

Jaskier gives him his widest grin. “With all my heart.”

“Lovely.” Mrs. du Rinde pats her nephew’s shoulder as she passes, leading the man away from Jaskier towards one of the cards tables, allowing him to relax once more, taking a seat on one of the empty chairs lining the wall. To his left, Shani and Priscilla are playing cards with Madam Francesca and Devlin, when Mr. Voorhis catches his eye by peeling away from the group.

“I must confess, I thought I should never escape your younger sisters,” he says, sitting on the chair next to Jaskier, who laughs, scooting over a little to give him room.

“They can be very determined,” he agrees. “Priscilla especially.”

Mr. Voorhis nods. “But they’re pleasant girls.” The remark, one that’s not often made by outsiders (Shani and Priscilla are a handful, he knows that as well as anyone) is welcomed. “Indeed, I find that society in Lettenhove quite exceeds my expectations.” He glances around the room. “I see Lady Yennefer is here, but not any of her companions.”

Jaskier chuckles. “I think some of Lady Yennefer’s friends would consider it beneath their dignity.”

To his delight, Mr. Voorhis looks a little lost at that. “Really?” he asks, considering. “Hmm. Have you known Sir Geralt long?”

Shaking his head, Jaskier responds. “Only about a month.”

“I have known him my whole life. We played together as children.” Jaskier looks up at that, and Mr. Voorhis smiles ruefully when he notices. “Yes, you are surprised,” he sighs. “Perhaps you might have noticed the cold manner of our greeting?”

“I confess I did,” Jaskier confirms, confused.

Mr. Voorhis considers this a moment. “Do you…” he trails off, clearly his throat before continuing. “Are you much acquainted with Sir Geralt?”

“As much as I ever wish to be,” Jaskier says vehemently, scowling at the memory of the man and the indifference he displays. “I’ve spent four days in the same house with him, and I find him very disagreeable.”

Chuckling, Mr. Voorhis shakes his head. “I fear there are few who would share that opinion – except myself.”

Jaskier frowns. “But he is not at all liked in Lettenhove,” he insists, eyes darting around the room to check if Lady Yennefer is sufficiently out of earshot to avoid hearing whatever tales are about to come tumbling out, which he’s very much interested in. “Everybody is disgusted with his pride.”

Mr. Voorhis still seems a little hesitant. “Do you know… does he intend to stay long at Vengerburg?”

“I do not know,” Jaskier responds truthfully, followed by what his sisters and father would undoubtedly label a flirtatious smile. “But I hope his being in the neighbourhood will not affect your plans to stay.”

“Thank you,” his company laughs, then sobers quickly. “But it is not for me to be driven away by Sir Geralt. If he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, but I have no reason to avoid him – but one: he has done me great wrong.”

Intrigued, Jaskier finds himself leaning closer.

“His father, Master Julian, the late Sir Vesemir, took me as his ward, and was one of the best men that ever breathed,” Mr. Voorhis continues, voice low so as not to draw attention. “He cared for me, provided for me, even loved me – I believe, as if I were not merely his ward, but a son. He intended me for the temple, and it was my dearest wish to enter into that profession. But… after he died, and the living he had promised me fell vacant, Sir Geralt refused – point blank – to honour his father’s promises.” He pauses, looking over with soulful eyes. “And so, you see, I have to make my own way in the world.”

Jaskier blinks, slumping back in his chair. “This is quite shocking,” he declares after a moment of letting the information sink in. “I had not thought Sir Geralt as bad as this. To descend to such malicious revenge… I shall write the most insulting ditty about him. He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”

Mr. Voorhis shakes his head solemnly. “Someday he will be, but not by me. And please, do not go to such measures on my behalf. Till I can forget his father, I can neither defy nor expose him.”

Across the room Priscilla laughs loudly, drawing their attention for a second before they return to their quiet comradery. “I wonder at the pride of this man,” Jaskier despairs once they’ve turned back to one another. “How abominable. You are more temperate than I should be in your situation.”

“Well, I have not the resentful temper that some men have,” Mr. Voorhis replies, sitting back in his chair. “And my situation, you know, is not so bad. At present, I have every cause for cheer. I can’t bear to be idle, and my new profession gives me active employment. My fellow officers are excellent men, and now I find myself in a society as agreeable as any I have ever known.” He smiles pleasantly, and Jaskier is powerless to keep himself from returning it. “You see, I absolutely forbid you to feel sorry for me.”

Priscilla comes bounding up to them, a frown creasing her forehead. “Jask!” she exclaims. “Jaskier, why should you feel sorry for Mr. Voorhis?”

Jaskier opens his mouth to respond – with what, he’s not sure yet, but it will be something sufficient to throw her off the scent – but the man himself is faster. “Why?” he repeats, obviously searching for a reply, and his eyes light up once he’s got one. “Because… because I have not had a dance these three months together.”

Priscilla claps her hands to her chest in horror. “You haven’t?” she almost shrieks. “Why, you shall have one now. Jaskier, play for us, would you?”

Defenceless against the pleading eyes of his sister, added to by Mr. Voorhis’ soft smile, Jaskier puts on a show of sighing defeatedly before rising to go to the pianoforte, stretching his fingers as he sits on the stool to play. His youngest sister pulls Mr. Voorhis onto the centre of the floor, another few couples joining them – Shani unsurprisingly dragging Devlin out – before he sets his fingers to the keys and plays a jaunty tune that he knows his sisters will appreciate. 

He grins at the dancers, Lady Yennefer having pulled Triss to join her for the routine.

* * *

He manages to contain the story that Mr. Voorhis had shared with him until that evening in Triss bedroom during their nightly ritual, his fingers running through her hair to search for any rogue tangles.

“I cannot believe it, Jask,” she says, turning around once he’s finished to lean towards him on the bed. “Sir Geralt would have far too high a respect for his father’s wishes to behave in such a way. And, Jask, consider – how could his most intimate friends be so deceived in him?”

Jaskier hums, setting the brush down on the bedside table. “I could more easily imagine Lady Yennefer being lied to, than to think that Mr. Voorhis could invent such a story.”

Triss’ face warps, first into a frown but altering quickly into stretched smirk. “I believe you like Mr. Voorhis, Jask.”

“I confess I do like him; I do not see how anyone could not,” Jaskier defends, pulling his knees up to his chest. “There is something very open and artless in his manner. He feels deeply, I believe, and yet has a natural merriment and energy despite all this.” He grins, winding his arms around his knees. “Yes, Triss, I confess I like him very much.”

Triss smiles softly, only for her brow to furrow after a moment’s consideration. “But,” she begins, and Jaskier rolls his eyes. “No, listen. After so short an acquaintance, do you think we should believe in him so implicitly?”

“How could he be doubted?” Jaskier flings his arms out and stares at his sister. “He gave me all the circumstances, Triss; names, facts, and everything without ceremony. If it isn’t so, let Sir Geralt contradict it. Besides, there was truth in all his looks.”

“You’ve always latched onto stories, Jaskier,” Triss reminds him, but her voice is fond. “I admit it is difficult, indeed. It is distressing. One does not know what to think.”

Jaskier scoffs. “I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.”

Triss hums, rolling over and inching up the bed so she can recline against the pillows beside him. “You said there were two things you wished to discuss?”

“What?” he looks at her, confused, until the earlier conversation at their aunt’s returns to him. “Oh, right. Yes. First of all, I believe I like your Lady Yennefer very well indeed.” He grins brightly, tugging teasingly at one of Triss’ curls. She shoves him away, but he notices that she doesn’t correct him on the ‘my’ this time. “Anyhow, she mentioned that someone was fond of me. She said ‘I see why he likes you’. Have you an idea of who she means? Was it Mr. Voorhis?”

Triss looks at him a moment. “Oh, Jask,” she sighs, leaning into his side. “Isn’t it obvious?”

It’s not, but Triss has already let her breathing even out. He stays until she falls asleep, replaying her words in his head over and over.

_Isn’t it obvious?_

* * *

“So unfortunate you couldn’t join us for supper,” Yennefer drawls, looking towards her friend, who pays her no heed. “Master Julian looked exceptionally well.” That gets his attention, yellow eyes rising to meet hers. _Aha_.

“I thought you were interested in Miss Pankratz, not her brother,” Geralt says, but it’s too late, she’s seen the flicker of interest in his eyes.

She nods. “Oh, I am. But I believe you had once mentioned an opinion about his fine eyes?”

Geralt hums, looking down at his papers. “A momentary lapse in judgement.”

“I’m sure.”

“Yen, must you be so involved in my affairs?” Geralt grunts, glancing back up with irritation present on his face.

Yennefer grins, draping herself over his shoulders. “You mustn’t deny me my entertainment, Geralt,” she teases. “The country is lovely, but the gossip and scandals and drama are what make it so utterly captivating.” The man doesn’t respond, so she switches to a new tactic. “Did you know that he often goes into town? Apparently, he likes to play music for the masses.”

Geralt sighs. “Who?”

“Oh, don’t act daft,” Yennefer admonishes, pushing herself back up and reaching for her wine goblet. “You know very well who. Did you know that his sisters call him Jaskier?”

“I did not, nor do I care,” Geralt replies, keeping his focus on his letters. To Ciri again, no doubt, or perhaps Eskel.

“Maybe he’ll let you call him that if you decide to act nice to him,” Yennefer says, ignoring his comment. “Come on, he’s not the worst person in the world. He’s very pretty, and has a clever mind. If I weren’t already enamoured with his sister, I’d snatch him right up.”

The man hums again. “A mercy for him, then.”

She groans, throwing her head back for dramatic effect. “Gods, Geralt, do you have to be the most stubborn man on the entire continent?” Her friend doesn’t answer, and she sighs. “Ugh, fine. Do what pleases you. _I_ find him curious, and I shall certainly ask him to dance at the ball here in two weeks.”

Yennefer is skilled at many things, and one of them is getting her friend’s attention. He looks back up immediately. 

“What ball?” he demands, a shocked tinge covering the normal monotonous tone.

“Oh, the one I promised at the assembly rooms a month ago,” she answers, ignoring the annoyed look she gets sent. “I told the youngest Pankratz girl she could pick the date, and this evening she did. A week from Friday.”

“A week from Friday is only nine days, Yen,” Geralt grits out. “You said two weeks.”

“Did I?” Yennefer feigns ignorance. “Oh dear, many apologies. At any rate, you aren’t getting out of this one. You are staying in my estate, and I demand you be there.” She grins wickedly. “And I demand you dance at least once, and _definitely_ with Master Julian.”

* * *

If there’s something Jaskier can find solace in, it’s that Mr. Voorhis seems just as wary and tired of Mr. Ferrant as he is, even if so far the man has turned out to be harmless. He’s been droning on about Tretogor Park for nearly twenty minutes now, and shows no signs of stopping yet.

“And I daresay you will be able to imagine the scope of the whole, Mr. Voorhis,” he says, smiling almost as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, which, to be fair, he might. “When I tell you that the chimneypiece in the great hall alone cost all of eight hundred pounds.”

Mr. Voorhis nods indulgently. “Eight hundred pounds, sir. I hazard a guess it must be a very large one.”

Ferrant smiles, all teeth. “It is very large, indeed, sir.”

They’re saved from another in-depth description of one of Tretogor’s many rooms by Triss, who Jaskier thinks for this might become an actual saint. She sends him a smirk, eyes bright and smug, and he hastily retracts that thought. Not a saint, then, just a sister who will tease him relentlessly later.

“Mr. Ferrant!” she cries, placing a hand beseechingly on his arm. “How fortunate, I must claim you for my sister, Shani. She has found a passage in the statutes of Vizimir that she cannot make out at all.”

Their cousin splutters, searching for an excuse, but none seems to be forthcoming. Jaskier ignores him, raising his eyebrows at his sister. He knows for a fact that Shani would never deign to read statutes of any kind, and immediately wonders what sort of favour Triss will want from him later, once her diversion has paid off.

She returns his gaze coolly for a second, smirk still firmly settled on her lips, as she presses their cousin harder. “I believe it is of great instigatory import, sir,” she says, cutting off whatever he had been trying to say.

Ferrant’s expression sours, but he does not argue, which is good. Jaskier’s heard his sister in arguments, and he knows she always wins. “Well… in that case.”

Triss smiles, sending Jaskier a quick wink. “You are very kind, sir,” she says, beckoning him away. “She is in the drawing room. Come, I shall take you.”

Bowing with a bit more satisfaction than usual, Jaskier shoots his sister a grateful look when she glances back over her shoulder, leading the odious man away for a while, hopefully.

“Mr. Ferrant’s conversation is very… um, wholesome,” Mr. Voorhis comments, walking alongside Jaskier as they meander through the garden. He seems at a loss for words.

Jaskier laughs. “And there is plenty to be had of it, I assure you,” he quips. “Have you made Lady Yennefer’s acquaintance yet?”

“No, but I am already disposed to approve of her,” Mr. Voorhis grins. “She’s issued a general invitation to the officers for her ball at Vengerburg this evening, which has caused great joy in more than one quarter.” He pauses, glancing over curiously. “She must be a very amiable woman.”

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier agrees wholeheartedly, thinking back to his conversation with her the week prior. “She is eager to meet others before judging them pre-emptively, which I quite admire. She is certainly a sensible woman with taste and refinement, and a sharp wit.” He frowns, tilting his head as he considers. “I wonder very much how Sir Geralt could impose upon her; for I cannot believe that she could tolerate him if she were to know what he is.”

My. Voorhis shrugs. “Probably not. Sir Geralt can please what he chooses, if he thinks it’s worth his while. Among his equals in wealth and consequence, he can be liberal-minded… honourable, even agreeable.”

Jaskier stops in his tracks, confusion covering his face as he turns to face his guest directly. “I wonder you can speak of him so tolerably.”

“He is not wholly bad.”

Gaping a little in astonishment, Jaskier goes to start walking again but thinks better of it, turning back on his heel. He’s very much curious about one statement that’s been lingering on his mind since the stay at Vengerburg.

“Tell me, what sort of girl is Sir Geralt’s ward?” he asks, watching his guest blink. “I fear her name escapes me at present.”

“Lady Cirilla.” Mr. Voorhis nods, a rueful smile on his face. “Well, I wish I could call her amiable. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me. And I have devoted hours to her amusement, but she has grown too much like her guardian.” His smile turns bitter. “Very… very proud. I never see her now. Since Sir Vesemir’s death, her home has been in the north. She’s but thirteen years old, your sister Priscilla’s age.”

Jaskier frowns. “Priscilla is fifteen.”

Mr. Voorhis does a double take, looking over to where the girl in question is chattering away to Devlin, him pushing her indulgently on the swing they made when they were children. Technically, Jaskier is supposed to be chaperoning her, but as he watches her happily jumping off the swing, he’s pretty sure she’s in good hands. Devlin seems a decent sort, and he’ll send Shani and Vreemde out to join her when they get back to the house. They’ll surely wish to escape Ferrant.

“I was amused by your cousin’s reference to Count Sigismund Dijkstra,” Mr. Voorhis comments as they turn to retrace their steps back through the garden. “He is Sir Geralt’s uncle, you know, and his daughter – Marie – will inherit a very large fortune. She’s destined to be Sir Geralt’s bride.”

Jaskier looks up at that, a feeling that he can’t quite put a name to bubbling up in his chest. “Really?” His companion nods, and he decides to ignore whatever feeling it is for now. He hums, a wicked smile turning the corners of his mouth up. “Poor Miss Sabrina. She will be devastated.”

Mr. Voorhis pauses, then starts laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know I called this a filler chapter, but I'm actually quite fond of it. I hope everyone enjoys it, and I'll be back on Saturday with the dance chapter!
> 
> I'm so grateful for all of your lovely comments and support, they really brighten my day! I'm always around for a message or chat on my Tumblr (@evanhart) too, and again, thank you so much!


	8. Chapter 8

There’s shouting coming from the hall, but Jaskier has long since learned how to ignore his sisters’ noise. He’s humming a tune that he’s had stuck in his head the past few days, one that he’s not been able to add words to yet, when his mother bursts through the door. The din from the hall grows louder.

“Ah! You look very well, Julian,” she exclaims, standing behind him with excitement written all over her features. “You’ll never be as pretty as your sister Triss, but I will say you look very well indeed.”

There it is.

Jaskier huffs out a laugh. “Thank you, Mother.”

The woman nods in satisfaction, then seems to think better of it, laying a determined hand on his shoulder. “I hope you will pay Mr. Ferrant every courtesy tonight,” she says, removing her hand to lace her fingers together as she heads back towards the hall. “He has been very attentive to you.”

Sighing, Jaskier resists the urge to slam his head onto the vanity. He’s meticulously managed his appearance, and it wouldn’t suit to waste it just because of an ill thought. From the hall, he thinks he hears his name, followed by a loud shriek.

“Priscilla, child, what are you doing?” he hears his mother cry. “Go back in your room and dress yourself!”

“I have to ask Jaskier something!” his younger sister protests, and yes – there she is a second later, bounding into his room with the youthful glee that he wishes he had for tonight. “Jask, look,” she says, and he turns to see a swathe of fabric thrust at his face. “What do you think? Shani says not, but I think it becomes me very well.”

Jaskier blinks slowly, trying to refocus his eyes away from the dress in front of him. “I wonder that you ask me then.”

Priscilla grins, lowering the garment and watching her brother as he turns back to the vanity to check his hair. “You look very nice,” she comments.

“Thank you,” he returns, sending her a smile through the reflection of the mirror.

She laughs, then schools her face into an expression of mock indignance. “Jaskier, I hope that you’ll not keep Voorhis to yourself all night,” she teases, and Jaskier fights hard to stop the blush rising to his cheeks. In the dim light of the room, he thinks he might be able to get away with it. “Shani and I want to dance with him too.”

Satisfied that he’s not as flushed as Triss is whenever Lady Yennefer is around, he turns back to her with an exasperated look. “I promise I shall not,” he tells her, then sighs in resignation. “Even if I wished to, I could not. I have to dance at least the first two with Mr. Ferrant.”

“Lord, yes.” Priscilla shudders. “He’s threatened to dance with us all.”

* * *

As soon as the carriage rolls to a halt Priscilla and Shani leap out, their incessant chattering finally somewhat muted now outside the confined space. Triss follows, and Jaskier goes to do the same, only to be halted by Mr. Ferrant appearing at the step. 

“Allow me, Cousin Julian,” he offers, somehow still smarmy, but Jaskier rolls his eyes and does, letting go of the man’s hand the second his feet touch the ground. 

Sidling up alongside Triss, he looks over the house that they’d been guests at a few weeks ago. “Do you think it will be tolerable?” he quips, ducking too late to avoid her swat.

“ _Behave_ ,” she hisses, drawing her cloak more tightly about herself.

Jaskier grins. “Who, me? Of course. It’s only amongst the ordinary folk that I am anything other than perfectly pleasant,” he says, trailing over the lit windows of the grand house. “With our peers, I am always…” he trails off, breath hitching a little a he spots Sir Geralt in one of the upstairs windows, stoic and imposing and – _and looking straight at him_.

“Jask?” comes Triss’ voice, followed by a hand on his arm. “Are you alright?”

“What? Oh, yes, quite,” Jaskier stutters out, glancing at her before darting his eyes up to look back at the window. Sir Geralt is still there, but he’s looking elsewhere, now. He watches a second longer, but the man shows no sign of looking back at him. Up ahead, the rest of their family is already ascending the stairs, so he shoots his sister an easy smile. “Yes, I’m all fine. Shall we?”

The follow their group up the stairs, stepping into the reception hall that Jaskier remembers covered in puddles, now scrubbed clean and swarming with people. A servant rushes over to help remove their cloaks and coats, bustling away again immediately as the two step into the reception queue. Just a few feet up ahead, Jaskier sees the forced pleasant looks adorning Sabrina and Istredd’s faces as they help to greet the guests.

“Miss Pankratz, Master Julian,” Madam Tissaia greets them calmly, and Triss curtseys while Jaskier bows. As he rises, he spots Priscilla and Shani dart into the crowd, giggling amongst themselves with no thought for decorum. 

“Oh, my dear Triss. How delightful to see you. And so well recovered!” Sabrina exclaims, smiling at his sister warmly and completely ignoring Jaskier, which he doesn’t mind that much.

Tissaia nods imperiously, immaculate as always. “It is pleasant to see you again.”

“Istredd and I have been _quite_ desolate without you,” Sabrina gushes, elbowing the man. “Haven’t we, Istredd?”

Istredd looks at them, evidently surprised at having been drawn into the conversation. “What?”

Jaskier glances away to hide his grin, but it appears not to matter as the two of them immediately turn to greet General Vilgefortz. Triss is still speaking amicably with Madam Tissaia, so he decides to satiate his curiosity and look around at what exactly it is that they’ve walked into.

Just past the front hall he sees the main room, cleared of any furniture other than around the edges to make way for the dancing, which appears to not quite have started yet – he can spot the band setting up in the corner. There are dozens of guests, well over a hundred would be his estimate, and the colour scheme seems to be somewhat bland for his tastes. The women are all in white, while the men have decided to stick with black and white together, with the exception of the officers clad in read.

Smugly, he glances at the pale blue dress Triss is wearing, the one that he always thinks suits her so well, and then at his own tailcoat which is more dark green than it is black. Subtle enough that neither of them is outlandish, but still enough to make a statement. Some of his finest handiwork, if he thinks so himself.

Lady Yennefer comes bounding up then, all bright eyes and eager smiles when she catches sight of Triss. She too has forgone the conventional colours, and instead is wearing her normal purple, if somewhat more elaborate than usual.

“You’re here!” she starts, excitement clear in her voice. “I’m so pleased.”

Triss smiles softly. “And so am I.” Jaskier bites back his grin, turning back to gaze about the crowd, lingering on each of the red jackets he catches sight of. Devlin and Vreemde are laughing to one side with his younger sisters, but he doesn’t spot Mr. Voorhis.

Suddenly, he’s aware of Lady Yennefer trying to catch his attention, and turns back quickly, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry, my lady, what were you saying?”

Lady Yennefer peers over his shoulder. “Are you… looking for someone?”

Jaskier shakes his head, covering up his slightly disappointed expression quickly. “No, no, not at all,” he assures her, adding a light laugh for good measure. “Admiring the splendour of the ball.”

His host narrows her eyes at him but thankfully does not press him any further, instead offering her arm – her other one is already taken by Triss, Jaskier notes in delight – which he takes with a small bow. Finally looking away from him and removing that vaguely disconcerting gaze of hers, she turns as the musicians begin to play and escorts them both into the ballroom, an act that Jaskier will definitely remember if he chooses to spite any of the other eligible men and women in the room later.

Across the hall, a pair of yellow eyes meet his, and Jaskier immediately – stubbornly – looks away, continuing his search of the faces until Devlin catches his eye, smiling and hastening over. He bows in respect, Triss and Yennefer curtseying in return before they leave the two of them alone.

“Master Julian,” he says as soon as he’s risen. “You look remarkably well this evening.”

Jaskier grins, batting his lashes flirtatiously. “Why, thank you.”

Laughing, Devlin shakes his head at the antics, before growing serious again. “I am instructed to convey to you, Master Julian, my friend Voorhis’ most particular regrets that he’s been prevented from attending the ball,” he reports, and Jaskier sobers quickly at the news. “He’s been obliged to go to town on the matter of urgent business, though I don’t imagine it would have been so urgent if he’d not wished to avoid… a certain gentleman.” He tilts his head towards the side of the room and Jaskier follows his gaze, catching on Sir Geralt.

The man himself spots them, as Jaskier supposes they don’t look altogether subtle. There’s a trace of a strange expression on his face, but he turns away before it can be deciphered. Jaskier’s given no time to ponder it further as his two younger sisters block his immediate view of the glowering man, another officer being dragged alone behind them.

“Devlin, I hope you’ve come prepared to dance with us tonight!” Priscilla giggles, Shani nodding emphatically behind her.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Vreemde apologises, his lopsided smile just a little bit overeager as he looks to Jaskier. “I would dance with both your sisters at once if I could, but as it is – “

“Oh, never mind that,” Priscilla cuts him off, grabbing Devlin’s arm to pull him into the crowd. “Come _on_!” She yanks harder, and he stumbles slightly as he’s pulled away. Vreemde gives an off-balanced wave as Shani pushes him along, leaving Jaskier alone with an amused grin lingering on his face.

Without company, he continues his sweep of the crowd, though without Voorhis there’s no specific goal in mind as he does so, instead admiring – and judging – the appearance of the guests that Lady Yennefer has seen fit to invite to her ball. About two thirds down the length of people he spots a familiar face, smiling at the excuse to go join his friend.

“I have so much to acquaint you with,” Jaskier sighs, and Essi looks up at his approach curiously, opening her moth to speak. Before she can, however, Mr. Ferrant sidles into view, and Jaskier has to resist the urge to roll his eyes blatantly. “Essi, may I present our cousin, Mr. Ferrant. This is my friend, Miss Daven.”

Essi nods amicably. “How do you do, sir?”

“Miss Daven, I am, indeed, honoured to meet any friend of my fair cousin’s,” he responds, bowing with less grace than would be expected. Jaskier looks away, pained. “So many agreeable young people. I am quite enraptured.”

Mr. Ferrant stretches out his hand as the musicians begin the tune to a dance, and Jaskier takes it, wondering how the other has missed all the dirty looks and glares Jaskier’s sent his way. Perhaps, he muses as he’s led onto the dancefloor and into line, perhaps Mr. Ferrant is just truly that determined. On any other occasion he would be flattered, but there’s still that uncomfortable air that the man gives off that he doesn’t like.

The dance begins and Jaskier bows, determined to clear his mind of anything other than the steps, least of all his cousin who’s floundering like a fish out of water. He knows the steps themselves, Jaskier notes, but by the third time his toes have been crushed underfoot he’s not sure whether he knows the right order.

“Other way, Mr. Ferrant,” he manages to hiss between clenched teeth, reaching out to drag the man back into place as he makes a wrong turn, bumping into one of the officer’s wives.

“Oh, madam, a thousand – “ he starts, but Jaskier doesn’t let him get another word out as he yanks the man back into position with as little regard for the strength of his grip as possible. This is only the first dance, and he dreads the next one. Hopefully, after that, he’ll be able to feign exhaustion well enough that he won’t have to stand up at all anymore. Dancing is a fine pastime, but he’s afraid it’s rather been spoiled for him this evening.

By the time the second dance has begun his toes are sore and likely to be bruised all over, and a permanent scowl is on his face. Mr. Ferrant does slightly better this time, but Jaskier finds that the smallest misstep (though it’s not so small, really, he almost brings down his entire line) is enough to make him snap.

“Come, Mr. Ferrant,” he grits out, looking away with cheeks red from embarrassment to find Sir Geralt watching the dance, smirking in amusement at the lack of grace Jaskier’s partner is showing. 

“My dear cousin, I apologise,” Ferrant tries, as though that will fix everything. Jaskier groans internally, risking a glance up to see that Geralt is still watching, following down the side of the line deliberately, almost like watching prey. Oh, that’s not a bad thought, actually. He’ll have to include that in a song.

Finally, mercifully, the dance end moments later and Jaskier barely pauses to give a respectful bow, all but fleeing the dancefloor in an effort to get away, hurtling past the other guests to Essi’s side, who gives him a sympathetic once-over. Determined to forget everything that just happened, he starts rambling, and Essi – who should certainly receive the title of saint that he’d rescinded from Triss earlier – lets him without complaint.

“It’s extraordinary,” she says a while later, after he’d relayed everything he’s learnt to her. “Are you sure it’s true?”

“Essi, how could it be otherwise?” Jaskier laughs with no humour. In the middle of the room the dances are still ongoing, the musicians playing a medley that Jaskier would have dissected at any other time. “Every circumstance confirms it, and Sir Geralt has boasted to me himself of his resentful, implacable – “

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Essi warns, voice low, and he looks up just in time to see the very man approaching them, stopping just before them and giving a short bow.

He looks up, face the same incomprehensible mask as always. “If you’re not otherwise engaged,” he begins, eyes never leaving Jaskier’s face. “Would you do me the honour of dancing the next with me, Master Julian?”

“Why, I… had not…” Jaskier flounders, eyes darting every which way as he scrambles for an excuse, his mind failing him for once and coming up blank. “I thank you, yes.”

The man bows again, turning and departing as quickly as he’d come.

“Why could I not think of an excuse? What was I thinking – have I no presence of mind?” Jaskier groans, stamping his foot in annoyance. “Hateful man. I promised myself I would never dance with him!” The embarrassment from earlier is well and truly pushed away now, irritation and more than a little spite bubbling up to take its place.

“He pays you a great compliment in singling you out, Jaskier,” Essi points out, expression unchanging. “Think what you’re doing. You’d be a simpleton indeed if you let your fancy for Voorhis lead you to slight a man of… ten times his consequence.” She pauses, and Jaskier huffs. “I daresay you will find him very agreeable, Jask.”

Jaskier looks up at that, barely suppressing the full-bodied shudder that runs through him at the thought. “Melitele preserve us,” he mumbles, scowl from earlier now firmly back. “That would be the greatest misfortune of all – to find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate.”

The song ends and Jaskier squares his shoulders, breathing out a final sigh before he moves away from his friend – still watching him with an expression somewhere between amusement and pity – and goes to take his place back amongst the dancers, hell-bent on not enjoying any aspect of the dance about to come.

Across from him, Geralt is as silent as the gaze, making the motions of the dance and taking Jaskier’s hand on every third step as is dictated, and even though Jaskier was set on having a miserable time a small part of him rears its head as they turn clockwise around one another, repeating the motion in the opposite direction a few seconds later.

“I believe we must have some conversation, Sir Geralt,” Jaskier says, jaw set. “A very little will suffice.” They loop around another couple, crossing in front of one another when they come back around. “You should say something about the dance, perhaps,” he prompts as they repeat the same steps. “I might remark on the number of couples.”

“I am perfectly happy to oblige,” Sir Geralt responds as they form a square set with another couple. “Please advise me of what you would like most to hear.”

Jaskier sighs, wanting to close his eyes in exasperation but not daring to lest he miss a step and be embarrassed in this dance as well. “That reply will do for present,” he decides, pausing as he thinks over what to do next. “Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But for now, we may be silent.”

There’s a long stretch of silence after that, seeming to go on longer than the mere minute it likely does.

“Do you talk by rule, then, when you are dancing?” Sir Geralt asks, face showing mild signs of irritation but not much else.

“No, I prefer to be unsociable and taciturn. Makes it all _so_ much more enjoyable, don’t you think?” Jaskier teases as they fall into place with the rest of the group. And if his voice is less carefree than usual when he’s teasing, so be it.

Geralt hums, but otherwise remains silent.

“Very well, sometimes it is best,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes at having to pick up the flack once again. He’s used to being the one doing the majority of the talking, but there’s no fun in making jibes at the other if they don’t react. “Then we may enjoy the advantage of saying as little as possible.”

The dancers return to the two original lines and repeat the steps from the beginning, Jaskier and Geralt turning clockwise with each other only to repeat it the same way. Jaskier has already rolled his eyes enough this evening, and suppresses the urge to do it again.

“Do you consult your own feelings in this case, or seek to gratify mine?” Geralt queries, and the shock of him actually contributing to their conversation is nearly enough to throw Jaskier off balance as they loop around another couple and cross in front of each other.

“Both, I imagine,” he replies once he’s got his balance back under his control.

Sir Geralt blinks almost curiously as they loop again.

“We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition,” Jaskier explains, looking anywhere but at those piercing golden eyes. “Unwilling to speak, unless we are expected to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.” He pauses, raising an eyebrow cheekily. “So, a little _lubrication_ to avoid embarrassment might be advantageous.”

The double entendre does not pass the other man by, if his sudden stiffness is any indication. “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I’m sure,” he says, though his voice is just a touch rougher than it had been before.

Jaskier preens a little at the thought of unsettling the proud man, relapsing back into silence as they step back and forward again in a line, looping around and repeating the alternating turns.

“Do… do you often walk into Lettenhove?” Geralt asks, and it takes Jaskier a moment to blink away the surprise at the sudden change in topic.

“Yes, quite often,” he answers, then smirks as a wicked thought arises. “When you met us, the other week, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”

Geralt’s eyes flash as return to the square steps. “I will admit you Mr. Voorhis has the happy manners than enable him to make friends,” he says, but it sounds bitter. “Whether he is equally capable of keeping them is less certain.”

Jaskier smiles at that, triumphant in getting the man’s stoic demeanor to crack, if even just very slightly around the edges. “He has been unlucky as to lose your friendship in a way he is likely to suffer from all his life.”

His partner remains silent, again.

“I remember hearing you once say that you hardly ever forgave; that your resentment, once created, was unappeasable,” he tries, taking Geralt’s hand as he’s led down the centre line between the other dancers. “You are very careful, are you not, in allowing your resentment to be created?”

Geralt hums. “I am.”

They loop another couple, Jaskier keeping his gaze steadily ahead of him. “And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not,” Geralt responds testily, and Jaskier allows himself to look at him. “May I ask to which these questions tend?”

They hold hands again, turning about to keep up with the other dancers.

“Merely to the illustration of your character,” Jaskier returns, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. “I am trying to make it out.”

They stay standing, the other couples seeming to fall away and leave them alone as they stare across at each other. 

“And what is your success?” Sir Geralt asks coolly, but the heat of his gaze is inescapable.

Jaskier chuckles a little, righting his head again as he sifts through the few solid facts he does know about the other man. “I do not get on at all,” he admits after a couple more seconds of consideration. “I hear such different accounts of you as to puzzle me exceedingly.”

The noise of the ballroom seems to trickle back into the silent bubble they’d found themselves in, the musicians warbling as they near the end of the dance. The couples loop again, stepping backwards to form the original lines as the song finishes, bowing and curtseying almost as one up and down the line. Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand, leading him away from the dance floor as is customary.

“I wish, Master Julian, that you would not attempt to sketch my character at the present moment,” he says sharply, letting go of Jaskier’s hand quickly, as though it had burned him with the contact. “I fear the performance would reflect no credit on either of us.”

Jaskier levels his gaze. “But if I don’t take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.”

“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” Geralt grits out, bowing quickly before darting back into the crowd, movements hurried and determined as he tries to get away.

Normally, he’d be insulted at the speed in which Geralt had left him, but this time there’s no other word for the feeling that he’s experiencing than relief. He still does not understand the man, only to begrudgingly admit to himself that he would be quite taken with him – the looks, possibly even the impassiveness – if only he did not know his true nature.

Cradling the hand that the other man had held against his chest, Jaskier glares after him spitefully, hoping against all odds that that’s the last he’ll have to see of that man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is - the infamous dance scene, and one of the best parts of Pride and Prejudice, in my opinion. I hope you all really enjoy it!
> 
> Speaking of, my friend Armache has made some amazing crossover art for The Witcher and P&P - go check out his Instagram @aestusaart to see it and so much more of the incredible work he does!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning - in this chapter someone gets threatened and hit. It's not a lot, and it's over relatively quickly. If you want to avoid it, it starts at the paragraph beginning with 'Mr. Ferrant chuckles' and then ends at the next line break.

“Oh, Master Julian,” Madam Tissaia calls, though she barely has to raise her voice, the command clear. Jaskier stops in his path, turning to her with the most charming smile he can muster.

Tissaia… it’s not that he doesn’t like her, next to Lady Yennefer she’s been the most amiable of their party, but the woman is stern and unrelenting and maybe - he’s a little bit, a very little bit – afraid of her, or at least of what he fancies she could be capable of.

“I hear you’re quite delighted with Morvran Voorhis,” she comments, staying still in her seat even as Jaskier is forced to step out of the way for one of the servers. “No doubt he forgot to tell you, among his other communications, that he is merely the ward of the late Sir Vesemir?” Those grey eyes seem almost to pierce Jaskier, and she beckons him forward a little. He goes. “But, Julian, as a friend, let me recommend you not to give credit to all his assertations. Voorhis treated Geralt in an infamous manner.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows, determined not to look away. “Has he?” he asks, curious in spite of himself. “How?”

“I was never privy to the particulars,” Tissaia responds, her voice as collected as ever, but Jaskier rejoices internally that she has no details to give, likely because there are none, with Sir Geralt so clearly at fault. “I do know that Sir Geralt was not in the least to blame,” the woman continues, almost as though she can hear his thoughts – and quite frankly, Jaskier wouldn’t put it past her. “I pity you, Julian, for the discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but really, considering his descent, one could not expect much better.”

“His guilt and his descent appear, by your account, to be the same,” Jaskier retorts, pulling himself up to his full height, already annoyed by the evening’s events and steadily growing more so. “I’ve heard you accuse him of being nothing worse than the ward of Sir Vesemir, and he informed me of that himself.”

Tissaia stands, regarding Jaskier for a moment without blinking. Distantly, the idea comes to him that this is some sort of intimidation technique, so he swallows and stands his ground.

The woman arches a brow at whatever it is that she apparently sees in his stance or expression. “I see,” she says, with no inflection in her tone. “I beg your pardon, please excuse my interference. It was kindly meant.” She moves away, skirts swishing about her as she goes, heading towards the other side of the room.

Jaskier sighs, closing his eyes briefly before turning himself and heading straight for the refreshments table, hoping to find some sort of alcohol to take the edge off of this nightmare of an evening. Vaguely, he notices Triss get up to follow him.

“Conniving woman,” he mutters, pouring some wine into a glass and practically draining it, reaching out to refill the cup.

“Jaskier,” Triss admonishes, sending him a pitying look as she comes up beside him.

“I see nothing in her paltry attack but her own wilful ignorance in a man as Sir Geralt,” Jaskier snaps, taking another sip of wine.

Triss sighs. “Yes, but Jaskier,” she starts, reaching out to lower her brother’s arm when he tries to raise the glass to his lips again. “That’s enough. Lady Yennefer did say that, though she does not know the whole of the history, she fears that Mr. Voorhis is by no means a respectable young man.”

Jaskier shakes her arm away and polishes off his wine. “Does she know Mr. Voorhis herself?”

His sister shakes her head. “No, not at all.”

“Oh, well, then she has had her account from Sir Geralt,” Jaskier barks, scowling at Triss as she carefully plucks his glass out of his hand before he can drain this one as well. “I’ve not the least doubt of Lady Yennefer’s sincerity. Of course, she would believe her friend, and it does her credit; but as to the other two gentlemen…” he shrugs, trying to snatch back his glass but failing as his sister steps out of reach. “I should venture to think of them both as I did before.”

Suddenly there’s a hand gripping his arm and he looks down to see Triss’ fingers wrapped around his sleeve, knuckles white as she tugs to get his attention. “Jask, look!” she whispers, pointing to one of the tables farther down the room, where Jaskier realises with a sudden spike in his bad mood that Mr. Ferrant is steadily making his way towards Sir Geralt. 

“They haven’t been introduced!” Triss despairs, still holding onto her brother. “Can we not prevent him?”

Jaskier frowns, watching as their cousin reaches the man, Sir Geralt looking up in surprise and not a little irritation. “Too late,” he remarks drily, similarly horrified as he and his sister view the proceedings, and a quick glance around the room tells him they’re not the only ones.

Geralt says something and Jaskier winces, sure of which tone the man just used. To his credit, Mr. Ferrant doesn’t seem to quail even when Sir Geralt stands up, though both Jaskier and Triss inhale sharply. The whole interaction lasts but half a minute, Sir Geralt turning on his heel as quickly as possible to get away, and it’s as if the entire room lets out a collective breath.

The path he’s walking leads him right past Jaskier and Triss, and both of them look down in equal parts shame and discomfort, waiting until he’s safely off to the side with Madam Tissaia to speak again. 

“Gods, will we ever be rid of vile men?” Jaskier moans, secretly relieved when his sister finally removes her hand from his jacket, smoothing away the creases as she does.

“Someday, perhaps,” Triss responds, eyes shifting over to another table as a shrill laugh sounds, one that both of them immediately recognise as their mother’s. 

Mrs. Pankratz is at one of the side tables, which is a small relief, but she’s right in between her two eldest children and Sir Geralt and Madam Tissaia, so if they can hear her, he’s sure the other two can as well.

“Mr. Ferrant is _such_ a sensible, respectable young man,” she gushes. “And he’s taken quite a fancy to Julian.” Jaskier stares at his mother in disbelief at what he’s hearing. “And I don’t think he could find a better husband. He favoured Triss at first, you know…” More eyes join his in gaping. “But Lady Yennefer was there before him.”

Down the hall, Jaskier sees Sir Geralt’s normally stoic expression twist into something darker, while even Madam Tissaia’s mask slips when she frowns.

“Now, there will be a great marriage,” Mrs. Pankratz continues, and Jaskier finds himself wishing that there was some way to shut her up. “And, of course, that will throw the younger ones into the path of other rich suitors.”

“Priscilla!” 

The shout is a diversion, surely, but not anywhere near the kind that Jaskier had been hoping for. Triss’ hand is clutching his arm again and he dares to look, but the startled sounds of other guests forces him to look up, only to wish that he hadn’t as soon as he sees his youngest sister giggling as she runs away from one of the officers, his sword held triumphantly in her grasp.

Captain Havart is dashing behind her, still yelling her name as he frantically tries to reclaim his weapon, finally succeeding only after they’ve jostled past Triss and Jaskier, almost spilling the wine that Triss had confiscated a few moments earlier.

“Gods!” Priscilla exclaims, collapsing onto a chair as soon as the sword is taken from her grip, another two officers and Shani catching up and trying to steady their breathing around the other girl. “Devlin, fetch me a glass of wine. I can scarce draw breath!”

Slowly, Jaskier closes his eyes and wishes he were anywhere else.

* * *

“And Havart did, and Devlin, and then Vreemde again,” Shani chatters, Jaskier mostly ignoring it in favour of keeping his eyes closed against the glare of the sun, his head still pounding from the night before. “And Lydia had already danced with him twice!”

“I see,” Jaskier murmurs, trying to figure out whether the headache was from the wine he’d basically chugged or if it was an aftereffect of the horror the night had been. A few seconds of consideration is enough to convince him that the source doesn’t really matter, he’d rather not have the pain at all.

Shani pouts. “Mr. Ferrant trod on my frock and tore it, you know.” Her voice has taken on the petulant tone that she and Jaskier both know works wonders to get her older brother to help her, and he’s just about to ask what she needs this time when their mother’s voice echoes from the other room as she enters.

“Julian, my dear!” she proclaims, and the manic glee in her tone is enough to make Jaskier’s eyes snap open and determine that something is very, _very_ wrong. “Oh, Mr. Ferrant, I’m sure there can be no objection.” Behind her, the man himself enters, and Jaskier grabs his sister’s hand in a panic.

“Shani, don’t leave me,” he hisses, sending a pleading look her way.

Shani looks at him in confusion. “Jaskier, what’s the matter? It’s only Mr. Ferrant.”

“Come, Shani, I want you upstairs,” their mother beckons, face still gleeful but also set in a way that brooks no argument. “Mr. Ferrant has something to say to Julian.”

Jaskier gives up on his dignity and switches to wheedling. “Dear Mother, don’t go,” he begs, standing up to try and make it out the door. “Mr. Ferrant must excuse me; he can have nothing to say that anyone could not hear.”

“Julian.” Mrs. Pankratz steps in front of the doorway, blocking his path. “I insist that you stay where you are and hear Mr. Ferrant. _Come_ , Shani.” The girl glances between her mother and brother, the indecision giving the woman a chance to grab her arm and pull her away. “Come along,” she says, shooting her son a warning look as she steps outside, closing the door behind her.

Jaskier is alone with Mr. Ferrant.

He steps back as the man steps forward, reaching out to fiddle with a vase of flowers he’d picked earlier, anything to try and distract himself from what’s about to happen.

“Believe me, my dear Master Julian, that your modesty adds to your other perfections,” Mr. Ferrant says, the too-sharp smile back on his face. “But you can hardly doubt the object of my discourse, however your delicacy may lead you to dissemble. For, almost as soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my future life.”

Jaskier can’t stop the snort that escapes him as those words.

Mr. Ferrant’s eyes flash, dangerously. “But before I am run away by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying.” He steps forward again, and Jaskier retreats more.

“Mr. Ferrant…” he tries, but a raised hand stops him from finishing the sentence. 

“My reasons for marrying are,” the man continues, as if he hadn’t heard the protest. “First, that I think it a right thing for every instigator to set the example of matrimony in his region. Secondly, that I am convinced it will add very greatly to my happiness. And thirdly, which perhaps I should have mentioned first…”

Jaskier chuckles nervously and shakes his head, the panic within him warning him to get out now.

“That it is the particular recommendation of my noble patron, Count Sigismund Dijkstra.” Mr. Ferrant smiles wider, taking another step forward. Jaskier steps back, again, only to find that he’s slowly been being herded into a corner. His eyes widen, but the man is still speaking. “He told me to choose properly, and that he will visit once I have brought such a person back with me. And your wit, and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable to him when tempered with the silence and respect, which his rank will inevitably excite.”

The wall hits Jaskier’s back.

Mr. Ferrant smirks. “But so much for my general intention in favour of matrimony, now as to my particular choice. My dear cousin, being as I am to inherit all this estate after the death of your father, I could not satisfy myself, without resolving to choose a spouse from among his children. And now, nothing remains –“ He pauses, getting down on one knee, which is a disadvantage to him that Jaskier eagerly takes note of. “- to assure you in the most animated language, of the violence of my affections.”

Jaskier puts his hands up. “Mr. Ferrant, please…”

“To fortune I am perfectly indifferent,” the man interrupts him again. “I am well aware that, heh, one thousand pounds and four percent is all you may ever be entitled to, but rest assured, I shall never reproach on that score when we are married.”

Somehow, mercifully, Jaskier finds his resolve before the man knelt on the floor in front of him decides to take any other sort of action. “You are too hasty, sir,” he says, his voice touched by the panic he feels even as he tries to suppress it. “You forget that I have made no answer, and let me do so now.”

The man narrows his eyes, shifting in his kneeling stance.

“I thank you for your compliments,” Jaskier goes on, voice wavering a little more. “I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to accept them.”

Mr. Ferrant chuckles darkly, rising to his feet in a swift motion. “I am by no means discouraged,” he says lowly, almost threateningly. “Indeed not. I understand that it is usual for young people to reject the addresses of the suitor they secretly mean to accept when they first apply for their favour.”

Jaskier’s mouth drops open and he blinks, only to find the man closer than before when he opens his eyes again.

“And therefore, I shall, my dear cousin, lead you to the altar before long.” This time the threat is no longer subtle, and it’s enough to kick Jaskier out of his panic and into outright anger.

“Upon my word, your hope is an extraordinary one in view of my declaration!” he huffs, fear giving way to insults that Triss has told him before will get him in trouble. “I was perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last man in the world who could make you so!” His chest is heaving by the end of his outburst, but the man in question has only moved closer and grown quieter.

He stops when he’s practically right up against Jaskier, and even though they’re off a height, the other seems to loom over him. “I would reconsider if I were you, Julian,” he murmurs, eyes hard. “Don’t throw away this chance at my connections, my circumstances. It is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made to you.”

Jaskier inhales sharply, ducking and trying to lurch away, but the fingers that wrap tightly around his wrist yank him back and hold him there in an iron grip.

“ _Reconsider_ ,” Ferrant hisses, the hand not holding on raised ominously.

Eyeing the fist, and disregarding any advice that Triss has ever given him on when to keep his mouth shut, Jaskier does the first thing he can think of and spits in his cousin’s face, scowling once the action is done. “I will not.”

Ferrant blinks, mouth curling into a snarl as he wipes his face with his free hand, examining the shine the spittle leaves as he draws it back away.

“I assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions to the kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man,” Jaskier manages to get out, in a voice far too calm for the flurry of panic and fear and worry that are swirling within him. “I thank you for the honour of your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings forbid it in every respect. Can I speak plainer?”

For a few seconds, Ferrant seems to scrutinise him, eyes roving over his face and evidently not liking what they see. Jaskier’s breath hitches as the grip around his wrist tightens, even as he tries to wrench himself free. 

“I suppose not,” Ferrant muses eventually, tilting his head a little as the vile smirk returns. “You are uniformly _charming_.”

And then comes the pain.

Jaskier collapses, his wrist suddenly released as he falls backwards, both hands reaching to cup his jaw and the side of his face as he lands on the floor with a thud. His cheek stings as his little finger brushes it, and he draws the hand back to see the smear of blood against his skin. It’s not a lot, presumably just a scrape from one of the rings Mr. Ferrant wears. 

The thought makes him look up in alarm, just in time to see the man nearing, but it’s early enough that he’s able to duck out of the way and scramble to the door, ignoring the shout behind him as he wrenches the knob and pulls the door open, his panic energising him enough to rush up the stairs quickly, narrowly avoiding the fingers that reach out to grab his coat. 

He’s not thinking properly, his mind is more or less a complete daze – shock, the rational part tells him – and he barely remembers bursting into Triss’ room, and definitely does not recollect collapsing into her startled arms in a dead faint.

* * *

Mr. Ferrant is tucked away in his room, and the thought should make Jaskier happy, but he knows he won’t be satisfied until the man is out of their home for good. He can hear his mother practically screaming from within their father’s study but cannot make out the replies, seated as he is outside the closed door with his head in his older sister’s lap. Shani and Priscilla have been sent outside, which is a relief. He doesn’t want either of them anywhere near their deranged houseguest, even if he had immediately tried to find Jaskier and apologise.

“It will be alright,” Triss soothes, running her fingers through his hair in the same way he does to hers when she needs to be calmed down. “There is not a doubt in my mind that Father will disprove the match, especially when he sees this.” She traces around the edge of the cut on Jaskier’s cheekbone, cleaned but still red and raw, the beginnings of a large bruise starting to bloom around it.

Their mother’s voice picks up again, and both of them wince. Jaskier tries to smile up at his sister, but it’s futile, and instead reaches up to grasp her hand in his.

Triss sighs. “I’m sorry, Jask,” she murmurs softly. “I should have been there, I should have – “

“It’s not your fault,” Jaskier cuts her off. “None of us could have known. Perhaps it was even a moment of delusion, he did try to apologise.”

“I would not accept it if he did try to give it,” Triss says, suddenly fierce. Her fingers stop their movements in his hair. “I know you do not truly believe he is sorry, Jaskier, and neither do I. Perhaps he will never do it again, not to anyone else, but that does not negate this instance.”

Jaskier nods, trying to nudge her hand back into its soothing motions, and sighs contentedly when she gets the hint. “I know,” he whispers. “You’re right, I do not forgive him. This is not the first time I’ve been hit for not keeping my mouth closed, and I’ve not forgiven the others yet either.”

“You’re not wrong,” Triss laughs at his words. “Who was it, almost four years ago now, who you got into some sort of tavern brawl with? Very undignified. The one who played the lute as well… what was his name? Vallo? Veden?”

“Valdo,” Jaskier replies, a smug smile spreading across his lips. “Valdo Marx. I beat him by winning best composition, and I won the fight after.”

“Ah, yes,” Triss chuckles. “I remember. Most improper. You were grounded for a month.”

Jaskier grins. “Good times.”

There’s the sound of a door opening and he looks up, right into the face of his mother staring down furiously at him. “Julian!” she calls, stepping into the hall briefly. “Julian, your father wishes to speak to you.”

Sighing, Jaskier pushes himself up off the floor, smiling at his sister as she gives his hand a squeeze and flashes an encouraging smile, the last thing he sees before he steps inside the study, marching in with his head held high in determination. Mr. Pankratz stands and steps out from behind his desk, eyes lingering over his son’s cheek as Mrs. Pankratz shuts the door, closing the three of them into the office.

“Come here, my child,” Mr. Pankratz says gently, walking with him over to the wall. Jaskier crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “I… well, I understand Mr. Ferrant has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?”

Jaskier nods stiffly. “Yes, sir.”

“Right, very well.” His father hums, glancing at his mother before turning back. “And… and this offer of marriage you have refused?”

“I have.”

“I see. Ahem, right,” Mr. Pankratz clasps his hands together. “Well, here we come to the point. Your mother insists on your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Pankratz?”

The woman nods, huffing dramatically. “Yes, or I will never see him again.”

“Well, an unhappy alternative is before you, Julian,” Mr. Pankratz states turning back to his son. “From this day, you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Ferrant, and, well, _I_ will never see you again… if you do.”

Jaskier looks up sharply, mouth hanging open at the sparkle in his father’s eye even as his mother wails in distress. There’s a lifting feeling in his chest and he cracks a smile, one that his father returns warmly, clapping a hand down on his shoulder before returning to sit at his desk. Jaskier glances over at his mother who has collapsed into a chair in her theatrics, before turning back to his father who sighs and reaches for his bottle of whisky. 

Grabbing one of the tumblers, Jaskier goes to pour himself a drink as well. He has a feeling they’ll all be needing one by the end of the day.

* * *

“Why, Essi!” Priscilla calls in delight as she and Shani try to escape the disaster that is their home. “What do you do here?”

“I’ve come to see Jaskier,” the girl responds, frowning when the sisters immediately begin to giggle. “What is it?”

“Mr. Ferrant has made Jask an offer,” Shani blurts out, eyes wide. “And what do you think? He won’t have him!”

Essi hums. “Then I am very sorry for him, though I can’t say I’m surprised,” she responds, taking in the expressions of the girls in front of her, narrowing her eyes. “What are you not telling me?”

Priscilla glances at the house, almost nervously. “Apparently,” she whispers, despite there being no one else around. “He hit Jaskier. On his face!”

Essi’s eyebrows shoot up. “He what?”

“Mama’s beside herself,” Shani adds, neither confirming nor denying what her sister had just said. “He says he won’t stay another night.”

“I wonder, should I invite him to dine with us this evening?” Essi asks, mind made up. She’ll visit Jaskier first, get his side of the story, and do the least she can and remove the object of his distress from his home. She still owes him for the last time they went into town together, when he had knocked out a man who had decided she would be going home with him. Although, she muses, thinking it over. It never would have happened if he hadn’t goaded her into accompanying him to the seedy part of town anyways, but, just like every other time, she hadn’t put up much of a fight.

“Oh, please do,” Priscilla whines. “take him away and feed him, for his has been in high dudgeon all morning.” She and Shani start giggling again, taking off and waving at Essi as she squares her shoulders and sets off towards the house, a single objective in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've had it too good for too long! - me, writing this chapter. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it at least!


	10. Chapter 10

There’s a small crash, and Jaskier looks up from his place in the sitting room, Triss glancing over with a fond but exasperated expression on her face. Right on cue, Priscilla stumbles into the room with Shani in tow.

“Triss! Jaskier!” she shouts, collapsing face first onto the only empty settee, pushing up on her elbows to look at her older siblings gleefully, Shani a nervous bundle of excitement in front of her. “What do you think? Mr. Ferrant has made an offer of marriage to Essi Daven!”

Jaskier freezes, his eyes widening.

Shani nods. “And she’s accepted him!”

There’s a faint buzzing in his ears and he feels Triss’ hand settling reassuringly atop his shoulder, her voice barely penetrating the daze he finds himself in.

“ _Essi_?” she repeats, sounding as shocked as her brother. “Engaged to Mr. Ferrant? Impossible.” 

“It’s not,” Priscilla confirms. “He asked her last evening after their meal!”

“Fancy that,” Shani laughs. “Proposing to two people on the same day! What a laugh.”

Triss’ hand is still a solid weight on Jaskier’s shoulder, but it’s not enough to stop him from springing up. “I have to go,” he announces, shaking his sister off as he rushes into the hall, the buzzing in his ears slowly being overtaken by a steady ringing. 

“Jaskier, wait,” Triss calls after him, hands outstretched as though to halt his motions where he’s rapidly trying to don his coat. “It would not do to go over now. Wait just a while.”

“I can’t,” Jaskier protests, buttoning his coat and not daring to look his sister in the eye. “I have to talk to her; I have to warn her what he is.”

Triss hums. “I’m sure she already knows.” Her hands are back, taking her brother’s head in her hands to force him to look at her, thumb smoothing over the cut that’s scabbed over since yesterday. “She saw you, I’m sure she put two and two together. Essi is not a stupid girl, Jask, if she has truly accepted Mr. Ferrant’s offer than we can assume she did not do so lightly.”

“I still have to go,” Jaskier whispers, meeting his sister’s gaze. “Please, Triss, I have to at least talk to her.”

“I know.” Triss sighs, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. “I know you do. Just be sure to mind yourself.”

Jaskier nods, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply before pulling away, rushing out of the door and walking down the road at a rate that could not quite be considered running, only close to it.

* * *

Mr. Ferrant seems the same as ever, his actions yesterday appearing as a sort of unusual change in pattern when faced with the odd figure the man cuts today, a perfect image of his actions before the incident. He’s talking to Sir Daven, having ignored Jaskier since his arrival – not that he’s complaining – and by the sounds of things, is once again waxing poetic about the fireplace at Tretogor Park.

“But why should you be surprised, my dear Jaskier?” Essi is saying, drawing his attention away from scowling every time his cousin comes near. “Do you think it incredible that Mr. Ferrant should be able to procure any person’s good opinion, because he was not so happy to succeed with you?”

“Essi, I didn’t mean…” he trails off, glancing over at her father and his cousin, now apparently her fiancé. He sets his cup of tea down gingerly, turning back to face her with a twisted feeling in his stomach, partially formed out of concern and part of confusion. “I was surprised,” he admits, cheek twinging a bit at the words. “But, Essi, if Mr. Ferrant has been so fortunate as to secure your affections, I’m delighted for you both.”

His friend tilts her head, considering him as she takes another sip of her own drink. “I see what you’re feeling. I’m not romantic, you know.” He nods, he does. “I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and, considering Mr. Ferrant’s situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state.”

Jaskier winces. “Essi…”

“I know what he did to you,” Essi says gently, placing her cup back in its saucer as well. “And I also know that you are not the type to easily forgive, nor forget. We are different people, Jaskier, and Mr. Ferrant has never been anything but perfectly civil to me.” She pauses, frowning a little. “Well, a little strange, but I suppose for him that’s normal.”

“Are you _sure_ you want this?” Jaskier pushes, but he has to ask, for his own peace of mind as well as for his friend’s. “You once said you’d rather go into a marriage knowing as little about the other’s defects as possible. I fear you know a rather large one now.”

Essi nods slowly. “I suppose in that regard you are right,” she concedes easily. “I did bring it up before I gave him my answer. I think you should know this especially, Jaskier.” She sits forward, waiting until her friend’s eyes meet her own. “It is a marriage of convenience, for us both. I live comfortably, and he gets to have a partner to parade around. It was not so difficult a decision. In this aspect, at least, I have no concerns for the uncertainty the future holds.”

“But that you will now be prevented from finding happiness elsewhere,” Jaskier insists, hoping that if he still pushes, he’ll get through. Distantly, though, he knows he won’t – Essi has always been strong-willed and even if he doesn’t approve, he has to admit that in her situation this marriage of convenience may prove beneficial. 

“Perhaps,” Essi agrees. “But I find that knowing what lies ahead brings me enough happiness. A concept you may not find suits you as well.” She smiles.

Despite himself, Jaskier finds himself smiling back.

* * *

“Triss, it was such a humiliating spectacle,” Jaskier disparages, pacing the room while his sister sits calmly, measuring her tinctures into simple jars. “For as much as it is born of convenience, she knows she’s marrying one of the stupidest men in Redania. I never believed her capable of that.”

Triss sighs, pouring out a small portion of some sort of foul-smelling brown liquid. Jaskier scrunches his nose at the odour. “Well, Jaskier,” she starts, slowly, as if worried he’ll become even more agitated and is trying to get ahead of the situation. “You do not make allowances for differences of situation and temper. Our cousin is not the cleverest of men, perhaps, but he is respectable – outwardly, at least.”

Jaskier shakes his head, continuing his nervous steps across the room.

“Perhaps he truly does regret what he did to you,” his sister goes on. “That does not mean I forgive him for it, but it also does not necessarily mean he will do it again. Perhaps it truly was a singular occasion.” She pauses, looking away from her salves and tinctures to watch her brother. “Come, now, stop pacing. As far as fortune goes, it is an eligible match. And Essi need not be concerned for any other wife-hunters.”

“Very eligible!” Jaskier scoffs, but he does stop his motions, standing and twisting his hands in place as he thinks over her words. “ _You_ would never think of marrying a person like that, simply to secure your own comfort.”

Turning back to her tinctures, Triss shakes her head – but it’s unclear whether it’s as confirmation to his statement or exasperation. “No,” she says eventually. “But, Jask, not everyone is the same.”

Jaskier huffs, crossing the room to sink into the chair next to her, making a face when the unpleasant smell wafts closer. “Dear Triss,” he sighs after a moment, the words slightly muffled by the hand he’s brought up to cover his nose and mouth. “I doubt that you will have to make a choice between marrying for love marrying for more material considerations.”

“Though you may, perhaps?” Triss shoots him a glare, earning only a smug wink in return, when Shani barges into the room.

“Priscilla and I want to go into town,” she says breathlessly, then sniffs. “Gods, what _is_ that?”

“It’s whatever vicious liquid Triss thinks will cure us all of the plague,” Jaskier quips, snorting when Triss manages to land a hit on his leg.

“I thought you went to town this morning?” she asks, corking the bottle and stopping the foul smell from spreading further. “You want to go again so soon?”

Shani shrugs. “We were so keen to tell you our news we forgot to do our errands,” she explains, then steps back towards the door. “We’d like you two to come along, but for everyone’s sake, get changed! You’ll stink up the whole of Lettenhove smelling of that.”

“It’s just the tincture,” Triss protests weakly, making Jaskier bark out a laugh as he stands.

“Oh, Triss,” he says fondly, stretching and determined not to think about Essi and her situation. “I’m sure it is. But, in case you haven’t noticed, you’ve spilt that tincture all over yourself in the process.” He steps towards the door before she can swat him again. “If you’re thinking of selling it as a perfume, I’m afraid you’ll need to start all over.”

He darts out the door, just catching the beginning of the glare across her otherwise lovely features, racing upstairs to change his clothes, opting for a more vibrant jewel-toned blue than the dull shades he’d worn earlier in his haste to get to the Davens’ house to see Essi. By the time he’s ready and downstairs, his sisters are all waiting impatiently.

“The blue really brings out the shades in your bruise, Jask,” Priscilla teases, indicating the markings on the left side of his face.

“ _Priscilla_ ,” Triss hisses, then looks up to her brother. She’s changed, wearing a blue dress that’s several shades darker than Jaskier’s which brings out the kohl emphasising her eyes. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Jaskier declares, spreading his arms out in a flourish as he hops down the final step, all three of his sisters rolling their eyes at his antics. 

Triss steps into place beside him as they amble out of the house, walking silently for a few minutes before leaning over as their youngest sisters distract themselves by gossiping and giggling loudly. “I know you’re concerned for Essi still,” she starts, gently so as not to draw the girls’ attention. “But she’s clever enough to make her own choices. Trust her.”

Jaskier sighs. “I do,” he says reluctantly, stopping in the middle of the path to face his sister fully. “Can we not talk about this now? _Please_?”

Triss purses her lips, scanning over his expression carefully before finally exhaling and dropping her arms to her sides. “Very well,” she says in resignation, turning to catch up to their sisters. “I will leave it alone, but you must promise me you will come to me should you feel obliged to revisit any sense of guilt.”

“I promise,” her brother swears easily, and she nods, holding back a step to allow him to fall into step beside her, relapsing back into a silence that is much more comfortable than the one before had been. They’re nearing the town now, and Shani and Priscilla pick up the pace to make it there all the more quickly.

It’s relatively quiet for the middle of the day, he notes as they step onto the main street, though he supposes there is not much on today to bring the surrounding gentry out from their homes. Glancing up at the sky, he will admit that it does look like rain later, and not many of their peers are as willing to venture out only to be soaked. He chuckles a little at the thought, remembering how determined Lady Yennefer’s guests had been not to help him when he went to find Triss in the storm.

“And I don’t envy Essi Daven in the slightest,” Priscilla sniffs, cutting through his solitary reminiscence. “Fancy wanting to marry an instigator!”

“He’ll be reading to her from the legal documents every night!” Shani adds, grinning.

Priscilla nods. “Before they go to bed!” The two of them break out in giggles, and Jaskier rolls his eyes fondly, thinking about Essi’s assurances that there would be no bedsharing. Small comforts, he figures.

The rumbling of wheels draws his attention away from his sisters and he glances over at the road, doing a double-take when he spots what he’s sure is one of Lady Yennefer’s carriages passing them, a little too far away for him to spot who’s inside, though he can’t imagine what would have drawn her out of her estate at this time, it’s too early for supper or a party, but even still, it’s headed away from Vengerburg and down the main road.

“Miss Pankratz!” shouts a voice and the four of them turn away from the carriage to see the lady herself on horseback, guiding her horse to trot over close enough that she can dismount. Her face is somber but the usual spark in her eyes at seeing Triss is still there, so Jaskier steps back a little to let them talk, instead looking back towards the road, his younger sisters whispering violently a few feet away.

Another horse pulls up beside Lady Yennefer’s and Jaskier glances at its rider, only to groan when he makes out the figure of Sir Geralt only a couple yards away. As if his day could get any worse.

“Master Julian,” he greets, hands clenched around the reins.

Jaskier nods politely, but distantly, in response, not having it in him to do much more, and hoping that the man won’t try and take the conversation any further. The movement, however, seems to have drawn the man’s gaze to his face, and directly into line with his left cheek.

Geralt swings off his horse to walk over, eyes roving over Jaskier’s face. His nostrils flare when he scans over the bruises and cut. “What happened?” he demands, voice even rougher than usual.

“Oh, Sir Geralt, I had no idea you cared,” Jaskier says waspishly, fluttering his lashes before straightening. “It is no concern of yours. Do not put yourself out for my sake.”

Geralt – for lack of a better term – actually _growls_ , but is stopped by saying anything further by his friend wrapping her fingers delicately around his arm.

“Julian,” she says, her eyes flickering to the cut as well, brow furrowing in concern. “I would like nothing more than to be able to stay and talk, however I’m afraid pressing matters draw us away.” She looks at his cheek again. “Are you alright?”

“I am fine, my lady,” he answers smoothly, touched at her concern. “I do not wish to keep you from your business. I’m sure we shall see you again soon.”

The lady winces, but inclines her head regardless. “Yes,” she responds, though it sounds a bit strained. “Yes, I’m sure we shall. Farewell, Julian.” She turns, practically dragging Geralt with her – which, yes, is impressive - the man is made of pure muscle. Jaskier may not like the man, but he does have eyes.

Once safely back on their horses Yennefer gives a wave and a smile that seems almost sad before she urges her mount onwards, while Geralt hangs back a moment, those golden eyes as piercing as ever.

Jaskier stares back defiantly, determined not to break eye contact first, unwilling to do that now especially considering the other times this has happened. Perhaps, he muses, as the man finally turns away to follow his friend, he’s just unused to general society and the staring is his way of expressing distaste.

Shaking his head at the notion he turns away from the road, only to tense at the sight of Triss standing listlessly, distress writ clear across her features. All of a sudden, Jaskier realises that he has no idea what Lady Yennefer had said to her.

“Triss?” he asks cautiously, moving forward to reach for her shoulder. “Triss, are you well?”

“Yes, yes, I am fine,” she assures him hurriedly, wiping at her eyes in a way that that doesn’t settle him at all. “Lady Yennefer is going to the capital, that’s all.”

Jaskier gapes. “She’s _leaving_? For how long?”

“She doesn’t know,” Triss replies, voice fragile as she finally turns to face him. “A few weeks, certainly, at the very least. She said she would aim to return as soon as it can be allowed.”

“Well, there you are,” Jaskier says, feeling decidedly less concerned than he had been moments ago. “If your Lady Yennefer is not back at Vengerburg and dining at your side in two weeks, I shall be very much surprised.”

Triss smiles at him gratefully, and seems to pull herself back together just in time for Priscilla and Shani to begin shouting again, calling over a few officers from across the street.  
“Look!” Shani says, waving happily. “There’s Devlin and Vreemde!”

“And Voorhis!” Priscilla adds, grinning as she turns to look back. “I suppose you’ll keep Voorhis all to yourself again, Jask,” she teases.

“Well, of course he will,” Shani scoffs. “He is _violently_ in love with him.”

Jaskier blushes, but only a very little, he’s sure of it. “For heaven’s sake, lower your voice,” Triss admonishes, ever his valiant saviour.

“Good afternoon to you, ladies, gentleman,” Devlin greets, falling into a sweeping bow, the others following his example. “What a fortunate meeting, for we were about to walk towards Lettenhove House in search of you.”

“We came into town in search of _you_!” Priscilla giggles.

Jaskier raises his eyebrow at that, recalling that they had initially been informed that the outing was in order to run the errands they had not been able to do previously, but as Triss sends him a wink and moves ahead to join their younger sisters and Devlin and Vreemde – leaving him alone with Voorhis – he finds he doesn’t care quite so much.

“We were hoping we would see you at the Vengerburg ball,” he comments, smiling at the man as he moves to walk at his side.

“I was very sorry, indeed, to lose the pleasure of dancing with you there. But fate, it would seem… no.” He sighs, shaking his head. “No, with you I must be entirely open. I decided that it would be wrong for me to be there. I found as the time grew near, that I’d better not meet with Sir Geralt, seeing as it might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”

“I do understand, and I admire your forbearance,” Jaskier responds, realisation rising at the words, his disappointment still lingering but soothed somewhat. “Not that it would give me a moment’s concern to see Sir Geralt publicly set down, but in Lady Yennefer’s house; it would grieve me to see her embarrassed and discomforted.”

Mr. Voorhis nods. “And, through her, your sister.”

Jaskier glances up in surprise at that. “Yes,” he agrees, eyes trailing to Triss. She’s laughing, and seems cheerful enough, but a pang goes through him as he remembers that the lady of her affections may be gone for a while, despite his reassurances to the contrary.

“I hear your cousin, Mr. Ferrant, is engaged to be married,” Mr. Voorhis remarks, drawing him back into the conversation.

“Yes, to my good friend, Essi Daven,” he confirms, the words like ash in his mouth.

Mr. Voorhis glances at him, eyes travelling over the cut but refraining from saying anything about it. “I had thought that his intentions tended in a different direction.”

At that, Jaskier smiles in amusement. “Perhaps they did,” he concedes. “But they took a little turn to everybody’s satisfaction.”

“And relief,” Mr. Voorhis laughs. “Will you… would you see fit to join us for dinner this evening?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Jaskier grins, decidedly cheerier than he had been before. “I would not want to interrupt your engagements and training with the regiment, but, in return, I hope that you will come and take tea with us, a week from Wednesday? I should like to be able to introduce you to my mother and father.”

To his delight, the man nods. “I have no engagements that I know of. I would be delighted, thank you.”

* * *

Jaskier returns to the drawing room with his mother after seeing their guests off, Shani and Priscilla trailing in their wake.

“Oh, young Morvran Voorhis is such a charming young man,” his mother simpers, sitting on the end of one of the settees. “Is he not, my dear?”

“What?” Mr. Pankratz looks up, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. “Oh, indeed he is. It was very good of him to entertain us so eloquently with stories about his misfortunes. With such narratives to hand who would read novels?”

Jaskier frowns, settling into his usual seat across from Triss at the little table. “But I believe he’s truly been treated contemptibly by Sir Geralt, father.”

His mother nods, while his father regards him carefully.

“Well, I daresay he has, Julian,” he says after a moment of contemplation, giving his son a shrewd look. “Though Geralt may turn out to be no more of a black-hearted villain than your average rich man who is used to his own way.”

“It behoves us all to take very careful thought before pronouncing an adverse judgement on any of our fellow men,” Triss remarks, shooting Jaskier a smug look that he chooses to ignore. From her tactfully-chosen place by the bowl of sweets, he notices Priscilla roll her eyes.

“Well, I feel very sorry for poor Mr. Voorhis,” Mrs. Pankratz decides. Not the first person he’d choose to have on his side, Jaskier thinks, but he’ll accept it for what it is. “And so becoming in his regimentals. I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself well enough.” She eyes her husband pointedly. “And I still do, in my heart.”

Jaskier rapidly tries to disguise his chortle as a cough. It doesn’t work.

“There’s no need to smile like that, Julian,” his mother snaps, looking over at him. “And though Mr. Voorhis has taken a fancy to you, I’m sure you’ve done nothing to deserve it, after your dealings with Mr. Ferrant.” 

Jaskier immediately sobers at the name, and Triss glances at him worriedly. He shakes his head minutely, subtly trying to encourage her not to fret.

“Well, it is all in vain,” their mother continues, which is the common tendency for quiet evenings. “It will all come to nothing. Oh, the poor young man, if only he had five – or six – thousand a year, I would be happy to see him married to any of the children.” She sighs. “But nothing turns out the way it should. And now, Lady Yennefer, of whom we all had such expectations, is gone off forever.”

Frowning, Jaskier turns to Triss in confusion. “What?”

“I have heard this morning from Miss Sabrina,” she says quietly, looking up with a resigned expression on her face. “It is now quite definite that they will stay in town for the whole winter.”

Jaskier gapes. “I cannot believe it.”

“It is true.”

“Come now, Triss, take comfort,” Mr. Pankratz speaks up. “Next to being married, a person likes to be passed in love now and then. When is your turn to come, Julian?” He sets his book on the side table, clasping his hands together. “You can hardly bear to be long outdone by Triss. Well, here there are enough officers in Lettenhove to disappoint all the young ladies in the country.” Shani and Priscilla giggle, their mother joining in. “Let Voorhis be your man. He’s a pleasant fellow, he’d jilt you terribly.”

Jaskier smiles ruefully. “Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me.” He looks over at his older sister, who doesn’t meet his gaze as she rises from her seat. “We must not all expect Triss’ good fortune.”

“True,” his father agrees, both of them watching as Triss heads to exit the room. “It is a comfort to think that whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will always make the most of it.”

“I don’t know what will become of us all, indeed I do not,” Mrs. Pankratz disparages as Jaskier scoots his chair out. “And I cannot bear to think of Essi Daven being mistress of this house. That I should be forced to make way for her, and live to see her take my place in it.”

“My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts, let us hope for better things,” Mr. Pankratz says, standing up at the same time as his son, who walks towards the door. “Let us flatter ourselves.” He looks down at his wife. “I might outlive you.”

The wail his mother lets out at that is enough to make a smile tug at Jaskier’s lips as he climbs the stairs, headed straight for Triss’ room.

“Come in,” he hears a few seconds after he knocks, opening the door and closing it quietly behind him, moving to sit on the bed.

He stays there quietly for a few moments as he watches Triss undo her braids, already changed into her nightgown, before he speaks. “Is there any way I can help?”

“You mustn’t be anxious for me, Jask,” Triss responds, unwinding long sections of her hair. “She will be forgot. And we shall all be as we were before.” She sighs, letting go of the braid to stare wistfully at her mirror. “But… I may remember her as the most amiable woman of my acquaintance, and that is all. I have nothing to either hope or fear; and nothing to reproach her with. At least I have not had that pain.”

Jaskier sits up straighter, reaching to take the hairbrush from its place on the dresser. “Oh, my dear Triss,” he whispers with a pang in his chest, watching her turn to him as she returns to her task of letting down her hair. “You are too good; your sweetness and disinterestedness are truly angelic.”

Triss gives him a look. “Don’t tease me, Jask.”

“Indeed, I do not tease you,” he laughs, beckoning her forward so she can sit before him on the bed. “There are few people whom I truly love more than a passing fancy, and even fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, despite my best efforts, the more I am dissatisfied with it.”

“Here,” she says, reaching back out to grab a piece of paper from the vanity, tossing it over her shoulder at him. “Read this.”

Jaskier takes it, looking down at the looped writing. "’Sir Geralt is impatient to see his ward and we are scarcely less eager to meet her again,’” he reads, brow furrowing. “’I really do not think dear Cirilla has her equal for beauty, elegance and accomplishments, and I believe Yennefer will be quite caught up with her. It is my duty to indulge you in no hope in a certain respect for your own self.’" He casts the paper aside once he’s finished. “I don’t believe it.”

“Is it not clear enough?” Triss says after a moment’s consideration, finally relaxing back and letting Jaskier start to run the brush through her hair. “Miss Sabrina is convinced that her dear friend is indifferent to me, and she means, most kindly, to put me on my guard. Can there be any other opinion on the subject?”

Jaskier huffs out an incredulous laugh, stopping in his motions. “Well, yes, there can!” he declares, throwing his hands up. “Miss Sabrina sees that her friend is in love with you, and wants to keep you away. She hopes to keep her in town, and persuade you that she does not care about you!”

Triss sighs, shaking her head without turning around.

“Indeed, Triss, you ought to believe me,” Jaskier urges, shifting so that he’s before Triss and she has to look at him. “No one who has seen you and Lady Yennefer together can doubt her affection.”

“I cannot believe Sabrina is capable of wilful deceit,” Triss says softly, and Jaskier scoffs, looking away in irritation. “All I can hope for, in this case, is that she is deceived herself.”

“Oh, hell!” Jaskier exclaims, wrapping an arm around his sister. “Believe her to be deceived, by all means, but she can hardly convince a woman so much in love that she is not.” He pauses, an idea flickering into his mind suddenly, and a sly grin makes its way onto his face. “Say, Triss, what if you were to go to town? I’m sure our uncle Borch and aunt Myrgta would be very happy to take you back to Gracetemple Street with him after Yule,” he suggests, grinning wider when Triss finally looks up at him, gaze suspicious.

“And why would you have me go to Vizima, Jaskier?” she asks carefully, taking the bait.

Jaskier continues to grin, pulling back a little so he can look at her innocently. “No reason…” he murmurs. “Change of scene and society?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voila! Here you go, little moment of Geralt being concerned for Jaskier... and then the dumb twink goes and ruins it. I'll be back on Friday with the next chapter - featuring Ciri!


	11. Chapter 11

It’s late, long past sundown, when the door to Geralt’s study flies open, hitting the wall with a bang and causing him to look up at the disturbance, the silver-blonde hair of his ward whipping through the room.

“You’re moping,” Ciri says, flinging herself down on the settee across from him. Geralt raises an eyebrow, he was sure Yennefer had finally managed to dissuade her from being too rambunctious with the furniture. She stares back at him, and he shakes his head, going back to his letters. Let her be young for a little longer.

“I’m not moping,” he grunts after a few moments.

Ciri shuffles in her seat, an impressive feat given the position she’s in draped over the couch. “You are most assuredly moping,” she informs him, and he remembers that she comes from noble stock, and was taught to win arguments at a young age. He’s sure Yennefer hasn’t trained that out of her, at least. “You’re quieter than usual, which I hardly thought was possible. _And_ you’ve barely laughed this past week, though, I suppose that’s not too abnormal.”

“I’m talking now, aren’t I?” He sets his pen down, turning to look at her.

She sniffs. “Only because you were prompted.” 

Geralt sighs, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “What would you like me to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” Ciri shrugs, pushing herself up so she’s in a more acceptable position. “Everything. Anything. You’ve barely said two sentences to me since you got back. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind, that’s all,” Geralt tries to assure her, and, to be fair, it’s technically the truth. He turns back to his desk, picking his pen back up to finish the letter to Eskel, listening to the sounds of his ward shuffling about on the settee.

“Is this about Julian?” Ciri asks suddenly.

Geralt drops his pen.

He whips around to look at her, half-numb in surprise. _“What.”_

“Julian,” Ciri repeats, smiling smugly when she sees that she’s got his full attention. Geralt can’t do anything but gawk at her. “He’s what you’re thinking about, yes? Yennefer told me all about him. She said you’ve not been this gone over someone since… well, ever.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Geralt manages to grind out, reluctantly borne back to the last glimpse of the man he’d seen nearly two weeks ago, blue coat matching the bruise around his eye, darker than the shade of his eyes and with a cut scabbing over on his cheekbone. Gods, he’d been so angry at the sight, he wasn’t entirely sure what had come over him.

Ciri grins brightly. “Yen said he’s young, but clever. He’s got brown hair and blue eyes and wears a lot of colours.”

All he can do is stare in horror as Ciri beams at him. He’s _really_ going to have to have a talk with Yennefer.

“She said his family isn’t too respectable, but he made up for it with his wit,” Ciri continues, legs swinging with excitement. “ _And_ she said he insulted you to your face, multiple times. Did he really do that?”

Something almost warm seems to rise in him at the thought. “He did,” he confirms, trying to push whatever it is back down.

His ward nods sharply, as if she’s made an important decision. “That’s good,” she declares. “Yen and Eskel say you need someone who can put you in your place.”

Geralt grits his teeth. “Did Yen tell you about _her_ fling in the country?”

“No, but I’m sure we’ll get to that next,” Ciri answers calmly. “Right now, my priority is you. And you’ve been being horrid lately. So, I want to make sure that whoever this Julian is, you write to him. Perhaps that will cheer you up.”

He scowls at the thought. “I will not.”

“You will,” Ciri decides, hopping off the furniture to come stand before him, giving him the doe-eyed look that she knows will get her whatever she wants, and abuses accordingly. “Please?” she says then, lips pouted in a way that makes Geralt think of an entirely different person. 

“I’ll think about it,” he huffs, knowing that he’ll not get her to let the subject drop anytime soon. “I need to finish this letter. Go ask Yennefer about Triss.”

Ciri’s eyes light up. “Triss…” she repeats, sounding out the name in her mouth, skipping towards the door, sticking her head back inside before she shuts it behind her. “Write to him!”

The door slams closed, and Geralt is left with an unfinished letter, spilled ink from his pen, and a distraction hinting at a headache that he really doesn’t need right now. He groans, resting his forehead in his hands.

 _Fuck_.

He really, _really_ could have done without the reminder of Julian. 

It’s not that Ciri, or even Yen – Gods forbid – is entirely wrong, but he certainly does not want to admit that to them, let alone to himself. The boy, barely a man, is young and naïve and foolish and sharp and clever and _very_ attractive and –

Geralt groans again, louder, forgoing the support of his hands to slump onto the desk, only barely restraining from beating his head against the wood. It’s a fairly large temptation, as is Ciri’s suggestion of writing a letter.

From _him_.

To _Julian_.

He’s not going to do that; he decides a moment later. Julian had made it perfectly clear that Geralt is not welcome in his society, the disdain showing through at every occasion, however untrustworthy his sources may be.

Geralt scowls at the thought. That, right there, is precisely the reason that he should refuse to have any more dealings with the man. The entirety of Lettenhove had seemed taken with the militia encamped there, but the presence of Morvran Voorhis and the Pankratz family’s attachment was especially prevalent. 

Damn that conniving man. Even when he’s away he still manages to ruin Geralt’s life.

Julian, though, is young. He’s not as young as Ciri, true, but he’s likely just as sheltered and just as naïve. Geralt can forgive him believing a trustworthy face and an intricate lie, but even before Voorhis had appeared the boy had been hostile, insulting him to his face just as Ciri had said. 

If he’s being honest, it was sort of impressive.

 _Fine_ , he admits to himself. Perhaps he is somewhat - slightly, a very little bit - in _love_.

* * *

“Uncle,” Jaskier says warmly, smiling as he approaches, and indicates the man beside him. “May I present Mr. Voorhis to you?”

Mr. Voorhis bows, and Borch matches the smile on his nephew’s face. “I understand you come from the Gwenllech valley, Mr. Voorhis.”

“Indeed, I do, sir,” the man confirms, oozing charm just as he has been since Jaskier met him, not that he’s complaining. “Do you know the country?”

“Oh, very well,” Borch replies easily. “I spent some of the happiest years of my life at a town called Hertch.”

“But that is not five miles from where I grew up!” Mr. Voorhis exclaims, grinning brightly. “At Kaer Morhen, I’m sure you know it.”

“Ah, Kaer Morhen,” Borch sighs, almost wistfully, elbowing Jaskier in the ribs gently. “Surely, Kaer Morhen is the most handsome estate in Kaedwen; and, consequently, in the whole world.”

Mr. Voorhis nods pleasantly. “I see you take my view of things, sir.” He glances at Jaskier cautiously. “And, uh, are you acquainted with the family?”

“No, not at all.” Borch shakes his head, and Jaskier sees his friend relax a little. 

“I had the fortune to be the protégé of old Sir Vesemir,” Mr. Voorhis says then, his tone taking on the same wistful inflection Borch’s had moments earlier. “He was the very best of men. I wish you could have known him.”

“Mr. Voorhis, there you are,” a young woman calls, moving forward to take the man’s arm. Jaskier frowns, looking down at her dark hair spilling out from the hairnet she’s tried to contain it with. “Come, you must dance with me.”

Mr. Voorhis chuckles nervously, glancing up and not quite meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “Duty calls, I’m afraid,” he jokes, letting himself be led away. Jaskier watches him go, confused and a little hurt at the appearance of the young woman, as irrational as it may be.

“Ah, young love,” his uncle laughs from behind him, and he turns, raising his eyebrows. “Come now, Jaskier. This is a pleasant evening, enjoy yourself.” He nods over at one of the tables. “Go speak with your friend, I’m sure we’ll be able to converse between us another time.”

Jaskier nods, smiling half-heartedly at his uncle’s kindly expression before taking his advice, moving away to seat himself next to Essi.

“Jaskier,” she greets amicably, switching her focus from the dancing to him, though he can’t say he’s fully returning the favour, eyes still locked onto a red coat.

“Hello, Essi.” He tears his eyes away, locking onto hers instead. “I’ve not seen you for a week. How have you been?”

“If you’re asking if Mr. Ferrant has hurt me in any way, I can assure you he has not,” she says, leaning forward while Jaskier winces, apparently not as subtle as he’d hoped. “We are quite content.”

“I’m glad,” he says, and surprisingly finds that he means it. “When do you go up to Tretogor?”

“We shall spend the wedding night here, and then travel to the town on Friday,” Essi tells him, looking back towards the dancers, sighing, before turning again and reaching for Jaskier’s hand. He looks up, only to see that she appears a little desperate. “You will write to me, Jaskier?” she pleads, gripping his fingers. “I believe I’m not likely to leave Tretogor for some time, I shall depend on hearing from you very often.”

Jaskier smiles, reaching out to cover her hand with his free one. “That you certainly shall,” he assures her, giving her as warm an expression as he can muster. It seems to work, for she appears to pull herself back together as she moves to sit straight once more.

“My father and Ellen are to come to me in the spring,” she says, looking at him with a hint of nerves. “I know you dislike Ferrant, and I do not blame you – but, Jask, will you promise to be one of the party? Indeed, you will be welcome as either of them.”

“In that case, how could I refuse?” He aims for flippant, but some trepidation at staying again in the same house as Mr. Ferrant must show in his eyes, for Essi’s gaze softens and she squeezes the hand she’s still holding. “But,” he continues quickly, unwilling to let any of his anxiety ruin the night. “I’ll only come if you guarantee me a glimpse of the famous chimneypiece at Tretogor Park.”

Essi bursts out laughing, letting go of Jaskier’s hand to cover her mouth. “That, I think, you could scarcely avoid even if you wished to,” she giggles, looking up as Ellen appears by her side.

“Have you asked him, Essi?” the younger girl queries, out of breath. “Is he to come to Tretogor with us?”

“Yes, I am,” Jaskier confirms, grinning at her as she claps, glancing as Borch comes to join them. 

“Good!” Ellen exclaims, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Oh, I shan’t be half as frightened of Count Sigismund if you are with us, Jaskier.” She twirls, stopping to squint out onto the dancefloor, her excitement quelled momentarily. “Who is that girl dancing with Mr. Voorhis?”

“Her name is Maria Louisa la Valette,” Borch answers, coming up to join them, his eyes twinkling as he winks at Jaskier, who blushes only a little. “She’s come to stay with her aunt in Lettenhove.”

“Oh.” Ellen looks at her again. “She’s not very pretty, is she?”

Jaskier snorts, only to join Ellen in receiving a glare from her sister. “Beauty is not the only virtue, Ellen,” she reminds her. “She has just inherited a fortune of ten thousand crowns, I understand.”

Jaskier whistles at that amount, looking at the girl in a new light. 

Behind him, Borch chuckles. “Now that is a definite virtue.”

They all burst out laughing, Mr. Voorhis glancing over in confusion.

* * *

Winter has finally decided to set in fully, and although the snow is light on the ground, the air is chilled and the windows have frosted up. Jaskier sits, huddled in three blankets – one stolen from Triss’ room, not that she’s around to use it – staring out the glass and holding a letter in his hand. Downstairs, he can hear his mother and sisters shrieking, though he’s not so sure why they’re still at it. It’s been two weeks since Mr. Voorhis left to pursue Miss la Valette and her attractive fortune, and he’s convinced himself he’s over it.

“It is very hard, very hard,” his mother had moaned when word had come. “I might feel sorry for Julian, though he endured little to deserve it.”

“For Voorhis to pursue Miss la Valette all the way to Novigrad just for her ten thousand crowns!” Priscilla had gaped. “I wish someone would die and leave me a grand fortune. Then all the officers would be violently in love with me!”

Shani and their mother had laughed, declaring the girl ugly and fantasizing about their lives and suitors they should have if they were ever in the same way as Miss la Valette. Jaskier had learned to tune it all out over the past few days, instead retreating to the sanctuary of his room or the quiet of his father’s study, eager to escape the tittering of his female relations without Triss there to commiserate with him.

He looks back down at the letter in his hand, sighing before breaking the seal and opening the pages, eyes scanning over his sister’s careful handwriting. 

“’January the twelfth. My dearest Jaskier, here we continue at Gracetemple Street to be quiet and comfortable; and my aunt and uncle could not be kinder or more attentive. All I lack here, dear Jask, is you to make me laugh at myself.’”

Jaskier smiles, tugging one of the blankets back up over his shoulder from where it had slipped. Oh, how he misses Triss and her tender views on the world, careful not to seem too upset or delighted and resorting to teasing him instead.

“’You will remember that, three weeks ago, when our uncle was going into that part of town,’” he continues to read, pursing his lips as he takes in the next few sentences. “’I took the opportunity of calling on Miss Sabrina and Mr. Istredd in the upper quarter. I was very eager to see them again, and I thought they were glad to see me, though a little out of spirits. Sabrina reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to Vizima, and thought it very strange that both my letters should have gone astray.”

Turning the page over, Jaskier rubs at his forehead. “ _Very strange_ ,” he agrees, sighing. He feels bad, now, for encouraging Triss to go to Vizima. He’d been so sure of Lady Yennefer’s affections, and the crawling feeling in his stomach is just reminding him of how wrong he’d been.

“’My visit was not long,’” the letter continues, “’as Sabrina and Istredd were going out. But - they gave me every promise of calling at Gracetemple Street in a day or two. I waited at home every morning for three weeks.’”

If there’s anything he can find solace in, at least, it’s that he and Triss are just as miserable as the other.

He picks up the letter again. “’At length, today, they came. I know, my dear Jaskier, you will be incapable of triumphing at my expense when I confess, I have been entirely deceived in their regard for me. Each made it very evident that they took no pleasure in seeing me.’”

Jaskier wants to throw the letter at the wall, but manages to hold back in order to finish.

“’When I asked after their friend, they made it clear that she knows of my being in town, but is much engaged at present, with Sir Geralt and his ward. I must conclude, then, that Lady Yennefer now no longer cares for me.’”

The urge to hurl the letter is stronger now as he finishes it, refraining only because he knows Triss wouldn’t appreciate it, and neither would he when it came time to pick it back up. Instead he resolves to stare out the window in a sort of sorrowful vigil, remorseful of his encouragements for her to go. Had she remained here; he could have at least assisted in keeping her mind occupied.

He sighs again, watching the few snowflakes that are falling dancing in the wind as they make their descent. Maybe, he muses, maybe he’ll find Lady Yennefer _himself_ , and then –

And _then…_

He’s not sure what he’ll do, exactly. Duel her for his sister’s honour? No, he’s never been good with a sword. At least not _that_ kind of sword. 

Jaskier grins at the thought, though it’s soured swiftly as his plans return. He’s always had a way with words, perhaps he could manage to convince Lady Yennefer to return, then she’ll surely remember her affections for Triss and begin them anew. And, if she doesn’t, then at least he could write the catchiest song to exist and fill it with rude jabs and scathing insults.

A snowflake lands on the window pane and he watches as it melts, his sister’s letter still clutched between his fingers. Spring can’t come soon enough.

* * *

The snows have thawed, and the days are crisp and bright as winter slowly transitions into summer. Triss is still not home, and Jaskier takes a moment to regret his agreement to travel to Tretogor with Ellen and Sir Daven in order to visit with Essi, as he knows he’ll just miss Triss when she arrives homes.

“Jaskier, come quick!” calls a voice from behind him, and he turns to see Priscilla sprinting up to him, chest heaving as she grabs his hand and begins to tug him with her towards the house. “Devlin and Vreemde are here,” she tells him, eyes bright as she grins wickedly. “And guess who else? Voorhis!”

Jaskier sucks in his breath at the name, eyes darting to the garden where he sees Shani waiting for them with three red-coated officers. He hardly dares breath as they approach, Voorhis turning to look at him with a pleased smile.

“Master Julian,” he greets amicably, bowing alongside the others. “I’m happy to see you again.”

Shaking his head to rid himself of the last vestiges of shock, Jaskier smiles back. “As am I.”

“I heard that you are going away,” Mr. Voorhis explains, offering Jaskier his arm. “Let us walk together. I felt I could not let you go without calling to see you once.”

“I am very glad you did.” Jaskier accepts the man’s arm to walk away, flashing a smug grin back at his sisters as they roll their eyes and stay in place. “I hear I am to congratulate you on your forthcoming betrothal to Miss la Valette.”

Mr. Voorhis chuckles somewhat nervously. “I think you must despise me.”

“Oh, indeed, I do not, believe me,” Jaskier laughs, though there is a small seed of bitterness still inside him. “I understand, as my younger sisters are not yet able to, that handsome young men must have something to live on, as well as the plain ones.”

His companion nods, and together they make their way through the garden and onto one of the country paths, wandering further away from the house and his sisters’ raucous laughter.

“Master Julian,” Mr. Voorhis starts once they’re sufficiently out of earshot, “I would wish you to believe me that, had circumstances been different…”

“Had old Sir Vesemir never had a son,” Jaskier finishes, stopping and halting the other man with him. “Oh, yes. But life is full of trials, as we are so conveniently reminded daily.” He pauses, watching his friend’s dubious expression. “I sincerely wish you every happiness in the world.”

Mr. Voorhis scans his face, searching for something. “You are very forbearing,” he says, seemingly satisfied with what he finds.

“I flatter myself, I am,” Jaskier laughs. “I think Triss will be quite proud of me.”

“I hope you and I, at least, will always be good friends.”

Jaskier considers the man a moment, then smiles. “I’m sure we shall, Mr. Voorhis.”

If nothing else, he can content himself with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this filler chapter with excessive use of italics. Soon, though, our two idiots in love will be back together!


	12. Chapter 12

The next time Geralt thinks about Julian Pankratz it’s springtime.

Well.

It’s a lie, and he knows it, having been plagued with thoughts of cornflower blue eyes and a sharp tongue and colourful clothing throughout the winter months, but admitting it is another thing entirely. Besides, he’d tried to push it out of his mind – though knowing that the man’s sister is in town isn’t helping matters.

A slight tendril of shame and guilt rise in him at the thought of Triss Pankratz in the house on Gracetemple Street. He’d not actively said anything to Yennefer about her presence in town, and he’s sure that despite their visit to the place, Sabrina and Istredd haven’t said anything either. He _had_ decided that should a letter for Yennefer arrive, he _would_ give it to her, but nothing has as of yet. He’s a bit concerned as to what that means.

Miss Pankratz seems very lovely, and he knows that Yennefer’s been lashing out a bit more than she had been while they were in residence at Vengerburg and her lovely lady was but a few miles away, but he still can’t entirely fault himself for trying to keep the two separate. 

He almost shudders at the memory of the girl’s family.

Pushing down the feeling of guilt – he’ll have time to analyse and then further supress it later – he remembers his own particular connection to the family. He did not write Julian during the winter, regardless of how much Ciri pushed him to and Yennefer snapped at him – and he’s fully content at not ever having to see the man again. He’s not, unfortunately, managed to get over his ridiculous infatuation (and yes, alright, maybe he’s finally come to terms with it being _love_ ) over the winter, but has assured himself that a total and complete absence of the man should help clear up his affliction come summer.

He’ll hardly have time to think on it, anyhow. Eskel is arriving within the hour, and in a few weeks’ time they’ll set off to Tretogor Park and endure the stifling company of their uncle, Count Sigismund Dijkstra. It _should_ only be a month or two, he’s been assured of that, but he knows that his uncle never likes to let them go once they’ve arrived, regardless of how much they’d both prefer to.

Downstairs a door slams and voices calling out greetings rise to meet him. Geralt sighs, closing his eyes before his cousin comes barging through the door to his study. He loves Eskel, closer to a brother than a cousin, but when Yennefer and Ciri are with him he becomes almost as unbearable to be around, the teasing relentless.

The voices get louder, accompanied but the sounds of feet on the stairs. He groans, wanting to hide for a bit, but he knows from experience that trying to escape Eskel is futile. The man is like a bloodhound.

The door slams open, and Geralt barely has time to stand up before he’s encased in a bearhug, giggling alerting him to the fact that Ciri and Yennefer are in the room as well.

“Eskel,” he greets gruffly, clapping the other man on the back and drawing away. He looks his cousin up and down with a critical eye, taking in the new scar on his right hand and the lack of military attire. “Finally decided to quit the army, have you?”

“Just on leave for a few months, I’m afraid,” the other man replies, grinning broadly as he steps back. “Prefer doing things on my own, anyhow.”

Geralt grunts. “Shouldn’t have become a general, then.”

“Oh, leave off.” Eskel rolls his eyes. “Not all of us have a massive fortune to fall back on. I am aware that I’m the only person in this room without.”

“We love you all the same!” Ciri promises enthusiastically, and Eskel turns to smile at her.

“I know you do, pup.”

Yennefer lays a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Let’s leave these two men to talk for a bit, shall we?” she suggests, lightly leading Ciri towards the door and smirking at Geralt, who suddenly has a bad feeling about this. She winks. “Have fun catching up!”

Geralt stares as the door closes, his cousin moving to take his place in the chair nearest the desk.

“So, Geralt,” Eskel begins, settling into his seat and leaning back. “Tell me about this man of yours.”

Everyone in the house had been strictly forbidden from even mentioning Triss a few weeks ago, and no one is stupid enough to try and test Yennefer’s resolve or her anger. Even Ciri has remained obediently quiet on the matter, and Geralt have carefully made the decision to censor himself as well.

The rule, _of course_ , had made no mention of not bringing up Julian.

“They’ve not given me a name,” Eskel continues, and Geralt spares a moment to thank whichever god is looking out for him. “Said I had to get that on my own. They told me other things, though.”

Scratch that. The gods definitely don’t have his best interests at heart.

“What have they told you?” he manages to ask, eyes closed against whatever onslaught may come at him.

Eskel laughs. “Oh, not much.” There’s the sound of shifting and Geralt cracks one eye open to see his cousin leaning forwards. “Just that he was the only person they’ve met other than themselves that managed to render you speechless. Obviously, if this is true, I wholeheartedly approve of the match.”

“Fuck off,” Geralt grunts, glad that Ciri’s not in the room to hear him use the word that he’s had to diligently stop her from repeating.

“I see how it is,” Eskel says in delight, easily catching the book Geralt lobs at his head. “Now I definitely have to meet him. Where have you got him hidden away?”

Geralt sits down heavily. “He’s not hidden away,” he retorts. “He’s not here, he doesn’t live in the city.”

“Ah, a country boy, then.” Eskel nods knowingly, although Geralt is convinced he knows nothing at all. “Charming. When will I get to meet him?”

“Never, if I have any say in it,” Geralt growls, glancing away from the smug look being sent his direction. “And I’m not going to make any effort to see him, either. So, all of you can stop scheming, because _it isn’t going to happen_.”

“You’re not going to see him?” Eskel repeats incredulously, sinking back again. “Gods, Geralt. You deserve to be happy.”

At that, Geralt grimaces. “First I need to make sure that Ciri’s happy.”

“Oh, she’s fine,” Eskel says, waving a hand. “She’s doing well – flourishing, really, if I can borrow one of Yen’s fancy words – and besides, she wants you to be happy, too. Who’s to say you can’t look out for her happiness as well as your own, eh?”

“Ciri comes first,” Geralt insists.

His cousin looks at him, as discerning as he’s always been. “You’re not still worried about him, are you?” he asks, then shakes his head when silence is his only reply. “It’s been a year, Geralt. Ciri’s thirteen now, and you won’t be able to protect her forever. You’ve both learned from your mistakes, and you’ve grown from them. Besides, surely you can entrust her to Yennefer’s care long enough to go sweep this man of yours off his feet?” He thinks for a second, and his eyes light up. “We could cancel the trip to Dijkstra’s. Gods know I’d rather be elsewhere. Then, you can go get your man.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Geralt tells him, gritting his teeth as the memories of Julian come back full force, flitting through his mind. He doesn’t understand the boy, probably never will, and he’s already determined to forget about him, not least to avoid the probable rejection were he to say anything.

“Geralt, really, you should –“

“Just _leave_ it, Eskel,” Geralt snaps, standing up quickly and pacing towards the other side of the room. He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself and closes his eyes before turning back around.

Eskel is watching him. Not warily, per se, but with a definite bit of concern across his features. Finally, though, he nods his assent.

“Alright,” he agrees, face understanding, though Geralt knows there’s no way he can fully understand. “Alright. In that case, with nothing to occupy us other than waiting in dread for the day we leave to go to our uncle’s, what have you for us to do?”

At the changing of topic, Geralt relaxes in increments, enough that he’s able to return to his seat and talk to his cousin, all thoughts of Julian pushed away to some abandoned recess in his mind – at least for the time being.

* * *

Jaskier isn’t fond of travelling, but he’ll admit that now is a welcome time to get away. Triss is coming back from Vizima in a little over a week, and as much as he’d love to see her again, he’s not sure he can spend another minute in the company of his younger sisters and his mother – the latter of whom still can’t seem to stop making snide comments about Jaskier turning down Mr. Ferrant’s marriage proposal. That he’s going away to visit the wife of the man only appears to have sent her into more of a spiral.

“Well, Julian, on pleasure bent again,” his father says from behind him, a few paces back as he watches the footmen load the trunks onto the carriage. “Never a thought of what your poor parents will suffer in your absence.”

“One of them, at least,” Jaskier laughs, turning to face his father. “Besides, it is a pleasure I could well forego. As I think you know.” He glances back at the sound of a thump, but everything seems to be fine in loading his things. “But I shall be happy to see Essi again.”

Mr. Pankratz raises his eyebrows. “What of your cousin, Mr. Ferrant? What of the famous Count Sigismund Dijkstra? As a connoisseur of human folly, I should have thought you impatient to be savouring these delights.”

Jaskier smiles in amusement, well aware that his father knows his opinions already. “Of some delights, I believe, a little goes a long way,” he responds.

“Yes,” Mr. Pankratz chuckles, nodding in agreement. “Well, think of me, Julian. Until you or your sister, Triss, return, I shall not hear two words of sense spoken together. You’ll be very much missed, my dear boy.”

“I’d hope so,” Jaskier quips, taking the hand that his father holds out and allowing himself to be drawn in for a quick hug. They both know that he’s the person Jaskier will miss the most over the coming month, despite how endearing Shani and Priscilla can be, it will be nice to have a break.

“Very well, very well,” Mr. Pankratz huffs, pulling away and making shooing motions with his hands. “Go on, now. Get along with you.”

Jaskier sends him one last smile and receives on in return, before climbing into the carriage, his travel companions already waiting for him. He glances back at his house one last time, sighing to himself before settling in for the journey.

The trip is long, and other than the brief stop they make for lunch Jaskier is not too proud that he can’t admit that he sleeps through most of it. When he finally awakes, it’s to Ellen and Sir Daven gushing over the view as the carriage moves swiftly onwards. Hazarding a guess that they’re nearing their destination, Jaskier sits up in order to look outside for himself.

“All this land belongs to Count Sigismund,” Sir Daven says, and Ellen gasps in amazement.

“ _All_ of it?” she asks, eyes wide. “He must be very rich.”

Sir Daven chuckles as Jaskier returns his view to outside, looking down a fork in the road that leads away from the straight path onwards, which presumably would take them straight to Tretogor Park, a place that despite being quite curious about, he’s keen not to have to visit right away.

The carriage rumbles down the turn, passing under a stone gate and rolling to a stop outside a fairly quaint house, one that’s not too much smaller than his own. As he alights, Jaskier realises that it is better than what he had been expecting.

“Sir Daven, Ellen, cousin Julian!” the owner himself calls, hurrying out of the house to come greet them. “I am truly honoured to be able to welcome you to my home.”

He goes to shake hands with Sir Daven, and Jaskier carefully keeps his expression neutral as the man’s eyes flicker over him, before Essi appears from the doorway.

“Oh, I am so happy to see you, Jaskier,” Essi sighs, pulling him forwards for an embrace which he eagerly returns, able to smile now despite the sounds of his horrendous cousin droning on behind him.

“And I, you,” he responds, clinging to her a second more before drawing back and taking her in, scanning every inch of skin that he can see.

Essi swats his arm. “Stop it,” she hisses, pulling him inside the entrance hall and helping him to remove his coat. “I’m not hurt, at all, so stop searching for any telltale signs. I assure you; you will find none. I told you this was a marriage of convenience, and, so far, it has been.”

“I’m sorry, dear Essi,” Jaskier says, squeezing her hand even as they make way for the others. He lowers his voice. “I had to be sure. I couldn’t bear it if anything had happened to you.”

“Nothing has happened,” Essi reassures him again. “I swear to you. Now, come. I believe my husband would like to give you all a tour.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes but turns and allows himself to be led away with the others, through the front parlour and dining room before they’re brought to the stairs to be shown their rooms.

“The staircase, I flatter myself, is eminently suitable for an instigator in my position, being neither too shallow, nor too deep,” Mr. Ferrant is saying, and regardless of the man’s many faults Jaskier does have to admit that he’s quite amusing, to poke fun at, at least.

“As serviceable a staircase as ever I have seen, sir,” Sir Daven agrees solemnly, and both Jaskier and Essi have to bite their lip to keep from laughing. “Now, at Aidern’s court – “

“Though it is nothing, of course, to the staircases you see at Tretogor,” Mr. Ferrant ploughs on. “I say staircases, because there are several; and each, in its own way, very fine.” They’ve reached the upstairs hall, by now, and Ferrant opens one of the doors. “And here, if you will permit me, cousin Julian.”

Jaskier swallows his mirth as he steps forward, reluctant to leave Essi’s side and immediately tensing up as soon as he does. His cousin, thankfully, does not do anything untoward, just gestures nonchalantly for him to enter the room.

“This will be your bedchamber while you are with us,” Mr. Ferrant explains, and if his voice is somewhat cooler than before, no one comments on it. “And, I trust, that you will find it comfortable and convenient.”

Jaskier swallows, setting down his gloves on the bedside table. “Indeed, it is a very pleasant room.”

Mr. Ferrant nods sharply and turns on his heel, chattering away to Ellen and Sir Daven as they retreat further down the hall, leaving his wife and cousin alone, resolute to ignore Jaskier, it would seem – not that he’s complaining.

Exhaling, and slumping when all the tension leaves his frame, Jaskier looks at his friend who regards him carefully for a moment.

“Come,” she says, beckoning him forwards and leading him back down the stairs, into a room that they hadn’t been shown previously. “This room has a good view of the gardens. It’s my private sitting room,” she explains at his look of confusion, and gestures towards the windows. “Mr. Ferrant never sets foot in here. You, dear Jaskier, are welcome whenever you please.” She smiles at him, and he smiles back gratefully, looking through the glass where she’s pointing.

“Lovely gardens,” he comments, glancing at her and not quite understanding what she means by showing him.

“They are,” she agrees, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Mr. Ferrant tends the gardens himself, and spends a good part of every day in them.”

Jaskier fights to contain his own grin as he realises what she’s saying. “The exercise must be beneficial.”

“Well, yes. I encourage him to be in his garden as much as possible,” Essi agrees, the amused lilt to her voice clearer than ever. “And then he has to walk to Tretogor nearly every day.”

“So often? Is that necessary?”

“Perhaps not, but I confess, I encourage that in him as well.”

Jaskier can’t control his grin anymore if he tried, looking away from the garden and at his friend who’s impressively managed to keep a straight face. “Walking is a very _useful_ exercise.”

“Oh, indeed it is.” Essi nods, turning away from the window and ringing the bell for tea to be brought. “When he is in the house, he is mostly in his study, which affords a good view of the road whenever Count Sigismund’s carriage should drive by.”

Raising an eyebrow, Jaskier considers the room they’re in as they move towards the couches. “And you prefer to sit in this parlour?”

“Yes.” A maid enters with a tray, and Essi immediately sets about pouring them each a cup of tea. “So, it often happens that a whole day passes in which we have not spent more than a few minutes in each other’s company.”

Jaskier accepts the cup being offered to him. “I see,” he says, relatively impressed with what his friend has managed to arrange for herself here.

“I find that I can bear the solitude very cheerfully,” Essi continues, stirring sugar into her cup. “I find myself quite content with my situation, Jaskier.”

She raises her eyebrows as if daring him to challenge her, but Jaskier says nothing, surprisingly pleased for his friend. Instead, he sips his drink and fills her in on all the gossip from home.

* * *

Mr. Ferrant did not stop talking the entire walk to Tretogor Park, and even the crunching of the pebble path underfoot was not enough to drown him out. Now, though, he’s quieter – if only because the count talks sufficiently to keep anyone else from getting a word in edgewise.

“An apothecary will serve your needs quite adequately,” the count is saying, directed at Essi who is listening as attentively as she can, though Jaskier can’t understand how she can bear to keep still. “Make sure it be no one but Piotr, Mrs. Ferrant. I shall know if I hear that you have gone elsewhere.”

Essi inclines her head demurely. “I assure you, I have no intention to, Count Sigismund.”

“No, indeed, _no_ ,” Mr. Ferrant decides to add. “No intention at all.”

“Well.” The count nods once, sending some sort of look to his friend – who had been introduced to Jaskier as Lady Philippa Eilhart, the count’s companion – before he turns to eye Jaskier sharply. The man is rather intimidating, though more by his demeanour that his appearance, as he sits in his chair looking as if he were holding court. “Your friend appears to be quite a genteel, pretty sort of boy, Mrs. Ferrant,” he notes after a moment of careful inspection, and Jaskier has to concentrate on not bursting out laughing. He’s never been called ‘genteel’ before. “His father’s estate is entailed on Mr. Ferrant, I understand.”

Mr. Ferrant bobs his head. “Yes, my lord, and I am, believe me – “

“Do you have brothers and sisters, Master Pankratz?” the count asks, effectively cutting off the instigator’s babbling.

“Yes, sir, I have,” Jaskier answers as politely as he can, despite the rather large urge to has to fool about. “I am my father’s only son, and the second of four children.”

Lady Eilhart considers this, leaning forward in her seat across from him. “Are any of your sisters out?” she asks, and Jaskier swallows as he looks at her, unsure whether she or the count is the real threat here, or equally so.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he affirms, deciding to tell the truth for now. “All of them.”

“All?” the count repeats incredulously, staring Jaskier down. “What, all four out at once? The younger ones out before the older are married?” Jaskier refuses to flinch under his gaze, even when the man’s face morphs into a more condescending expression to match his change in tone. “Your youngest sisters must be very young.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the worried look Essi shoots him, but instead of heeding her warning Jaskier squares his shoulders and stares back at the count defiantly. “Yes, sir,” he says, remaining respectful, if not agreeable. “My youngest is not yet sixteen.”

“Well,” the count sniffs, raising his chin and turning his head away, but Jaskier, never one to deny pressing his advantage, continues.

“She is full young to be out much in company, but really, sir, I think…” he says, spine rigid and voice determined to say his piece as he takes the full force of the count and Lady Eilhart leveling him with their surprised and miffed glares. “…it would be really hard upon a younger sister, that they may not have their share of society and amusement, simply because their older siblings have not the means, or inclination, to marry.” Sir Daven looks dumbstruck, and Jaskier finds his nasty streak emerging as he turns to look at him. “Sir Daven, wouldn’t you agree?”

The man blanches and Jaskier feels quite satisfied with that response, but Ellen and Essi’s pleased expressions next to Ferrant’s horrified glower are what really please him.

“Upon my word, you give your opinion very decidedly for so young a person,” the count exclaims, but his tone is not one that’s clear enough for Jaskier to place. “Pray, what is your age?”

“With two younger sisters grown up, your lordship can hardly expect me to own it,” Jaskier replies shortly, not wanting to admit to himself that the count is smarter than he’d given him credit for.

“Master Pankratz, come now,” Lady Eilhart says, voice deceptively soft compared to her intense scrutiny. “You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure. Therefore, there is no need to conceal your age.”

Jaskier swallows, but does not look away. He’s not sunk that low, at least. “I am not yet twenty.”

The woman smiles, and it’s fierce and wrong and finally Jaskier lets himself look away, skimming over the count’s scowl before allowing himself to drift out of the conversation, ears ringing as the buzz of the others talking rumbles around him. He doesn’t like Count Sigismund, nor Lady Eilhart, his companion – whatever _that_ means. They’ve not done anything actively bad, but if this man truly is Sir Geralt’s uncle then at least he can see where Geralt got his harsh words and air of superiority. The count’s daughter, at least, is quiet where she sits next to her father.

Jaskier’s not sure how much condescension he’ll be able to manage before he snaps.

The lands and parks, thankfully, are lovely and almost enchanting enough to distract him from any unpleasantness of Tretogor Park and its inhabitants, and over the next few weeks Jaskier finds himself retreating into them more and more often in order to avoid the people around him. Essi, however, he allows to accompany him whenever she wishes.

“It is beautiful,” he tells her on one of their walks, down a path not too far away from the house. Up ahead, Ellen is skipping along, inspecting every flower and insect she finds. “I think I could grow almost as fond of these woods and hills as you have, Essi.”

“Jask,” Essi sighs, looping her arm through the crook of his elbow and pulling him closer, resting her head on his shoulder as they amble along. “I like the quiet, and the peace. I’m safe here.”

Jaskier hums. “I suppose you are. I’m happy for you.” As much as he’d meant those words when she first assured him that she was fine with her engagement, he means them so much more now that he’s able to see what she’s built for herself here, a home and a life that’s comfortable and safe in a way that would have him chomping at the bit to get away.

Ellen darts closer to them, a bundle of picked wildflowers clutched in her hands. “We have been here three weeks and already we have dined at Tretogor Park six times!” she declares, shoving her little bouquet at Jaskier with a blush. “I would never have expected it to be so many.”

Jaskier smiles at her, accepting the offering she’s giving him with a small bow that makes her blush even more. “No, nor I,” he agrees, running his fingers over the petals of a daisy. “It’s quite remarkable. I would have thought the count and Lady Eilhart would be more enticed to be rid of me after the first meeting, but alas.”

Ellen giggles and Essi cracks a smile, a peaceful moment that’s shattered when Mr. Ferrant is heard running towards them. “My dear!” he shouts, and the three of them turn to face him. “Ellen! Cousin Julian!”

“What is it, my dear?” Essi asks, and Jaskier winces at the endearment that he knows she uses only for propriety’s sake.

“Sir Geralt has arrived at Tretogor,” Mr. Ferrant tells her, and Jaskier’s blood runs cold, freezing in his step as the man continues. “And with him, his cousin, General Eskel, the son of the Earl of Hertch, the late Sir Vesemir’s brother! And the gentlemen have vouchsafed us the greatest honour. They are coming to call on us at our home!”

“When?” Essi asks, squeezing Jaskier’s arm as if to remind him that she’s still there, despite him being as stationary as a rock.

Mr. Ferrant waves them back frantically. “Even now, Mrs. Ferrant! Even now they are hard upon my heels. Make haste, make haste!” He takes off running, back to the house, Ellen scrambling to keep up.

It takes Jaskier another moment to be able to move, but slowly the reality of the situation sets in and he shakes his head to clear the remnants of panic, setting his jaw and allowing Essi to tug him back towards the house with her gently.

“I think this must be due to you, Jask,” she says softly, her hand a warm point of reassurance on his arm against the chaos inside his head. “Sir Geralt would never have come so soon to wait upon me.”

He doesn’t want to go – really, there’s nothing in the world he wouldn’t prefer – but reluctantly he knows that it’s likely just a courtesy, visiting them, Sir Geralt has no need to come across him of his own volition, especially considering the insults he had received and returned from Jaskier. The swirling in him subsides at the thought.

“You are mistaken, Essi,” Jaskier says eventually, finding his tongue as they round a corner and come within sight of the house, smoke curling out from the kitchen chimney. “For I know he dislikes me just as much as I do him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update: I actually posted another work today! It's Geraskier, of course, and it's on my profile - called Iaomai - To Make Whole. I had been wanting to write touch-starved Geralt for a while and so here we are! It's a one-shot, only about 7000 words, but I'm really proud of it and I'd love if people would check it out!
> 
> Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this little bit of fun! Next chapter the boys will be back together!!


	13. Chapter 13

The first thing Jaskier sees when he walks into the house is Ellen trying valiantly to hide her nerves, sitting on the couch in the parlour with her father across from Sir Geralt and Mr. Ferrant, another man, whom he presumes must be his cousin, standing by the door. Smiling benignly at himself, Jaskier takes off his coat and gloves, giving them gratefully to the maid who comes to collect them before heading into the parlour to join the others, Essi hot on his heels as she makes a beeline to the chair next to where her husband is sitting.

Everyone looks up as Jaskier stands in the doorway – with the exception of Mr. Ferrant, who continues talking to Sir Geralt. The man himself is staring at Jaskier, those golden eyes every bit as piercing as they had been before the winter. Jaskier resolutely ignores them, making his way across the floor to sit at the table on the far side, only then deigning to look Sir Geralt in the eye.

The man doesn’t look away, more’s the pity – and he’s not sure if it’s out of stubbornness or something else – he’s never been able to get a good grasp of the man’s character. His words at the ball at Vengerburg had been truthful, in that sense; the various accounts he’s heard and what he’s experienced do not all come together.

“Essi, Julian, may I present General Eskel,” Mr. Ferrant introduces, and the man bows, though it’s only out of the corner of his eye that Jaskier notices this, still held by Sir Geralt’s stare.

Jaskier raises his eyebrow and breaks the gaze, turning instead to look at the other man who’d arrived to visit them, and is currently moving to join him at the table, sitting down on the other chair.

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance at last, Master Julian,” Eskel says, leaning forward in his seat. There’s a long set of scars running down the side of his face, that Jaskier briefly examines, but they do nothing to take away the sparkle in his eyes – amber, relatively similar to Geralt’s – and the kind smile dancing on his lips.

“At last, sir?” Jaskier repeats, slightly confused. The man across from him is handsome, and so far, seems lovely, but there’s no telling what things he’s been told.

Eskel grins. “Well, I’ve heard much of you,” he responds easily, and has the gall to actually _wink_ , displaying a lack of decorum which Jaskier definitely appreciates. “And none of the praise has been exaggerated, I assure you.”

“Oh, well, then,” Jaskier starts, finding himself grinning back at the man’s easy manner. “I can well believe that. Sir Geralt is my severest critic.” He glances over, only to find himself once again pinned by the man in question’s stare.

“Not all of it has come from Geralt,” Eskel laughs, resting an arm on the table while Jaskier looks at him in surprise, warmed by the fact that Lady Yennefer must have mentioned him. He quells the feeling quickly, remembering that he is determined to be displeased with her unless she sets things with Triss to rights. “I hope we shall see you frequently at Tretogor while we’re there,” his company continues, and Jaskier reminds himself to stay focused. “I am fond of lively conversation.”

Mr. Ferrant is still holding one such conversation – one-sided – on the other side of the room, and Jaskier deems that enough to keep himself attached to Eskel for the time being, who’s being surprisingly good company. “This you do not find at Tretogor Park?” he teases, watching as the other man chuckles.

“Well, my uncle does talk a great deal,” he admits, sitting back. “But seldom requires a response, lest it be from Lady Eilhart. My cousin there speaks hardly a word when he comes into the area, though he is lively enough in other places.”

At that, Jaskier frowns – another bit of information that doesn’t seem to fit with all the other puzzle pieces of knowledge he’s gleaned about the man.

“Nobody plays, nobody sings,” Eskel goes on, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I believe you play _and sing_ , Master Julian.”

“Oh, extensively,” Jaskier responds, eager now that the subject has changed to something he does understand. “Though I must warn you – your uncle does not keep a lute, which is my instrument of choice, only the pianoforte. And that I play only a little, very ill. I wouldn’t wish to excite your anticipation.”

“That should not take away from your singing, though, should it?” Eskel laughs, his fingers tapping against the table. “And come, I am sure you are too modest. But any relief would be profoundly welcome, I assure you.”

Jaskier grins, enjoying the company of one of Sir Geralt’s relatives far more than he ever thought he should. The man himself is still watching him closely, and the nasty streak Triss has always told him he has decides to rear its head. “Can you tell me why your cousin keeps staring at me?” he asks, leaning a little towards Eskel conspiratorially. “What do you think offends him?”

Eskel looks over, his expression rapidly changing from one of confusion to one of amusement, his hand covering his mouth as he looks ready to burst out laughing. Sir Geralt sends him a glare, then rises, cutting off Mr. Ferrant and causing the room to go silent.

“I hope your family is in good health,” he says roughly, having crossed the room in three strides to stand facing the table.

Jaskier blinks. “I thank you, yes.”

There is a silent pause as Geralt continues looking at him, and Eskel tries to appear casual as he shifts his gaze between the two, mouth still covered and eyes crinkled with mirth.

“My sister has been in town these three months,” Jaskier says eventually, his ire over _that_ situation bubbling back up to the surface. “Have you never happened to see her?”

“No,” Sir Geralt replies, mouth hardening in a way that makes Jaskier narrow his eyes. “No, I have not had that pleasure.” The room is still quiet, everyone in it watching him walk to the window, hands clasped behind his back. Eskel looks away from his cousin and back to Jaskier, who tilts his head, finally sharing the man’s amusement.

“Sir Geralt and I, you see, are not the best of friends,” he says lightly.

Eskel frowns a little, but his grin returns quickly, though his words are confusing. “I am very surprised to hear that.”

Jaskier frowns. It’s no secret that he and Geralt dislike one another, and for that reason surely the man’s own cousin should have known. “Why should you be?” he asks, determined to either understand or irritate the gentleman at the window more, either is acceptable. “I always believe in first impressions, and his good opinion once lost is lost forever.”

Sir Geralt shifts, meeting his gaze with something unreadable on his face.

“So, you see,” Jaskier smiles at Eskel. “It is a hopeless case, is it not, General Eskel?”

“Just Eskel, if you please,” he urges, shoulders shaking with what appears to be silent laughter aimed at his cousin, another feature that Jaskier can appreciate. “Unlike some, I have no propensity to be needlessly formal.”

At that, Jaskier _definitely_ starts laughing.

* * *

He does not like the pianoforte. The instrument he’s currently playing is fine, yes – very much so – but it is not the same to have keys under his fingers instead of strings. He’d be much more comfortable with his lute, or even a viol. Something that he can hold and move with, not be stuck in one place. 

General Eskel – just Eskel, he reminds himself – is the only good thing about his current situation, the man having proved himself to be both witty and charming, along with a healthy dose of handsome that Jaskier finds irresistible. He has no intention of trying anything, not at all, but, well… there’s no harm in _looking_.

The rest of the group sits in the parlour, through the doors, listening to him play and sing. He had decided to do something older, something more accepted, in place of one of his own compositions. He doesn’t much care for the Count or Lady Eilhart, but he would prefer not to be thrown out of their estate.

He finishes the song and grins at the polite clapping that starts up, a little more enthusiastically from Essi and Eskel than the rest.

“You will never play really well, Master Pankratz, unless you practice more,” Count Sigismund notes, and Jaskier smugly notices that he doesn’t remark on his singing. “You may come to Tretogor as often as you like and play on the pianoforte in the solar.” 

Lady Eilhart nods in agreement. “He would be in nobody’s way in that part of the house.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up. There are so many things wrong with that sentence, but similiarly to his song choice, decides to take the safest route, ducking his head from her gaze. “Thank you, sir, ma’am.”

The Count nods at him and turns to Mr. Ferrant, the conversation picking back up to a low buzz, but even that drains out as Jaskier spots Sir Geralt rising from his seat, turning to head over to them. Shaking his head a little at the man’s nature, glancing at his imposing stand opposite the pianoforte, Jaskier strikes up an instrumental tune as Eskel sits down on the bench beside him. It’s a touch closer than propriety would recommend, but the annoyed flicker in Sir Geralt’s eyes at the action makes Jaskier not mind it at all.

“Do you mean to frighten me, Sir Geralt, by coming in all this state to hear me?” he quips, flashing a mischievous smile at the man sitting next to him. “But I won’t be alarmed. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”

Sir Geralt actually seems to smirk, the corner of his lips twitching up, and it’s enough for Jaskier to slip and hit one of the keys harder than he’d intended. He covers his mistake quickly, though, looking back at the man defiantly.

“I know you find great enjoyment in professing opinions which are not your own,” Geralt states, still watching him intently.

“Your cousin would teach you not to believe a word I say, Eskel,” Jaskier says in mock offense, prodding Eskel with his elbow. “That is ungenerous of him, is it not?”

“It is indeed, Geralt,” Eskel pretends to gasp, leaning forwards to rest his arm on the instrument.

Jaskier laughs. “Impolitic, too,” he adds. “For it provokes me to retaliate, and say somewhat of his behaviour in Lettenhove, which may shock his relations.” He stops playing, staring Sir Geralt down.

“Hmm.” The man cracks a small smile. “I am not afraid of you.”

“What have you to accuse him of?” Eskel wonders, sounding entirely too delighted with the turn the conversation has taken. “I should dearly like to know how he behaves among strangers.”

“The first time I ever saw Sir Geralt was at a ball,” Jaskier says in a stage whisper, leaning towards the General. “Where he danced only two dances –“ Eskel laughs, “– though gentlemen were scarce, and more than one person was in want of a partner.” He sits back up, smiling triumphantly at Geralt, who fiddles with the medallion around his neck. “I am sorry to pain you, but so it was.”

Eskel looks like his birthday has come early. “I can well believe it!”

Geralt shifts, looking slightly uncomfortable. _Good_ , Jaskier thinks. “I fear I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”

“Shall we ask him why?” he teases, setting his fingers back on the keys and picking the tune back up. “Why a man of sense and education, who has lived in the world, should be ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”

“I’m…” Sir Geralt starts, cutting himself off and swallowing. “I have not that talent, which some possess, of conversing easily with anyone, let alone strangers.”

Jaskier considers this a moment, staring at the infuriating man before him with something that feels like incredulousness. “I do not play this instrument so well as I should wish to,” he points out, watching Geralt expectantly. “But I have always supposed that to be my own fault, because I would not take the trouble of practising.”

Eskel makes an impressed noise, but Jaskier doesn’t turn, keeping his eyes focused on Sir Geralt who hums in agreement, nodding, and it’s enough to surprise Jaskier into silence.

“You are perfectly right,” he says then, and if it was surprising before, Jaskier is sure he’s about to fall off of his seat, now. “You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you could think anything wanting.” He pauses, and Jaskier is too speechless to interrupt. “We, neither of us, perform to strangers.”

The inaccuracy of the last statement takes away from what Jaskier can hardly believe was a compliment. “I perform to strangers quite well,” he says archly. “Perhaps it is neither of us recognising the other’s true features.”

He means it to be bitter, he really does, but Sir Geralt seems either not to have picked up on the tone or ignored it, his sort of half-smile remaining admiringly on his face longer than Jaskier would care to admit having it directed at him.

“What are you saying to Master Pankratz? I must have my share of the conversation,” Count Sigismund calls from the other room, and it seems like all three of them roll their eyes and stifle a groan. They are in agreement on _that_ , at least, Jaskier notes in amusement.

* * *

The next day is calm and quiet, and with no scheduled guests at Tretogor, Geralt finds it easier to rise from his bed, cleaning up and dressing before heading downstairs to join the others at breakfast.

“It’s just us this morning,” Eskel calls out as soon as he enters, grinning unabashedly, and Geralt groans and very nearly turns on his heel to just head right back to his room. “No, no, wait!” his cousin calls, scrambling up to the door, grabbing Geralt’s arm and dragging him to sit at the table. “Come on, I wasn’t going to say anything. You look like you need something to eat.”

Geralt sits as he’s told, raising an eyebrow at his cousin across the table. “You weren’t going to say _anything_?” he repeats, doubt lacing his town.

“I really wasn’t,” Eskel assures him, then raises his hands. “But… now that you’ve mentioned it…” Geralt growls in warning. “Alright, alright.” Eskel lifts his hands higher in a surrendering motion. “All I wanted to ask was about Master Julian Pankratz. He’s your little country boy, isn’t he? The one that Yennefer and Ciri seemed to like so much?”

“Ciri has never met him,” Geralt rumbles, reaching for the platter of meat. “And Yen doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Eskel laughs, taking a sip from his tea. “Oh, I doubt that,” he says cheerfully. “She seemed to sum him up perfectly. He’s got a fierce tongue and a pretty face; I can understand why you’re so enchanted.”

“ _Not enchanted_.”

“Oh, sorry, excuse me. I meant to say _smitten_.”

Geralt glares harder, standing up to try and leave again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about either.”

Eskel shrugs, unconcerned. “Maybe not,” he concedes, staying in his place as he watches Geralt move to the door. “He’s still lovely. You wouldn’t mind, then, if I were to... attempt something?”

Geralt freezes in the doorway.

“As I thought,” Eskel says smugly.

“You’re a bastard,” Geralt bites out, turning in his place to glare at his cousin.

“Figuratively, perhaps,” Eskel agrees, with a self-satisfied smirk that Geralt has a foreign urge to punch off of his face. “Not literally, as you well know. Besides, I didn’t mean anything by it. You’d get far too growly and mope for decades if I did anything.” He leans back in his chair, toying with the medallion he wears that’s identical to his cousin’s. “Besides, you’re already gone on him, and I would never do anything to compromise your happiness.”

He sounds sincere, and it’s so out of place in the situation that Geralt doesn’t like it. “What’s your point?” he demands, wanting to move the conversation along.

Eskel considers him a moment. “I want you to be happy,” he says simply. “You’ve spent your life pushing people away and prioritising others’ joy. Perhaps it’s time for _you_ to find some of your own.”

“Goodbye, Eskel,” Geralt grunts, turning back to the door to leave, for real this time. There’s a scraping sound behind him, followed by a scuffle, and he glances back to see his cousin rushing after him.

“Wait!” he calls, and against his better judgement, Geralt does. “Wait, there’s something you should know.” He throws his arm around Geralt’s shoulder, grinning. “I know for a _fact_ that the rest of the guests are town today. Julian will be all alone at the Instigator’s residence.”

“Alright, we’re _done_.” Geralt shoves his cousin off and strides away, relieved when he doesn’t follow. Halfway down the hall, though, he stops, rubbing at his forehead in irritation. “Fuck,” he breathes, calling the nearest servant to have his horse readied. Apparently, he’ll be visiting Julian, after all.

* * *

Jaskier looks down at the letter he’s writing, a smile stuck on his face as he rereads some of what he’s written. It will amuse her, of that he is certain, and will most likely make her shake her head in despair at his antics. Hopefully it will relieve at least some of the disappointment she’s feeling for having not seen Lady Yennefer once in her months in Vizima.

The doorbell rings and he looks up, listening to the maid answering and sighing to himself. He’s not exactly in the mood for company, today, but valiantly puts down his pen and waves the paper to dry the ink before folding it in half and placing it on the desk, next to a pile of stationary. He stands up just in time to greet the guest, eyes widening and heartbeat speeding up as he sees who it is.

“Sir Geralt,” he gasps out, bowing stiffly as the man does the same, snapping his mouth shut as soon as he realises that he’s gaping. “Mrs. Ferrant and Ellen are just now gone into town with my cousin to see off Sir Daven,” he says, angling for some semblance of appearing the polite host. “You find me all alone this morning.”

Sir Geralt blinks once, twice. “No, I beg your pardon, I would not wish to intrude upon your privacy.”

Jaskier casts his eyes about – anything to use as an excuse to look away from the man’s gaze – and pulls out the chair from the desk, turning it to face his guest and sitting down. “I was just writing a letter to my sister, Triss,” he says, watching carefully for any sort of reaction at the name, disappointed when he finds none. “That is all.”

Geralt hums, and they both look around awkwardly, before he imitates Jaskier and pulls out a chair, sitting in it without any inclination to relax or lean back. He’s not shifting his weight nervously, but one of his fingers twitches as it keeps its hold on the man’s gloves.

“Lady Yennefer and her companions were well, I hope, when you left Vizima,” Jaskier says, looking to fill the strange silence in the way he always does.

“Perfectly so, thank you,” his guest responds gruffly. 

Jaskier sighs to himself, annoyed and deciding to let it out a bit. “I understand Lady Yennefer has not much idea for ever returning to Vengerburg.”

Now Geralt seems nervous, shuffling a miniscule amount in his seat and not meeting his gaze. “It is probable that she may spend very little time there in the future.”

“If he means to be there but little, it would be better for the neighbourhood that she should give the place up entirely,” Jaskier snaps, annoyed at the man and at Lady Yennefer, too – deciding that he shall add a rather nasty paragraph about them in the unfinished letter for Triss.

“I should not be surprised if she were to give it up as soon as any eligible purchase offer arrives.” Sir Geralt meets his eyes briefly, looking away again. He seems as uncomfortable, if not more so, than Jaskier is. “It… it seems a very comfortable house.” 

Jaskier nods, not knowing what else to say.

“Mr. Ferrant appears extremely fortunate in his choice of wife,” he continues after another stretch of silence, and Jaskier regards him closely. He’s not sure if the man is making some sort of jab at him – he seems above taking in the rumours and gossip of lowlier persons than himself, regardless of how true they may be – or at Essi.

“Yes, indeed he is,” he decides to say, carefully, without taking his eyes off of the other man. “Though, seen in a prudential light, it is a good match for her as well.”

“It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a distance of her family.”

“Easy distance?” Jaskier repeats, confused for other reasons now, and _oh_ , isn’t that annoying. The man hasn’t said anything _remotely_ insulting yet, what is he supposed to do with that? “It’s nearly fifty miles.”

Geralt shrugs. “What is fifty miles of good road? Yes, I call it a very easy distance.”

“Near and far are relative terms,” Jaskier retorts, a little unsettled at the small smile that creeps onto his guest’s face.

“Yes, _exactly_ ,” Geralt agrees readily, watching him intently. “You would not always wish to be too close to Lettenhove, I should think.”

Jaskier stares, stunned and confused. He’s not sure what to make of these pointed questions – though, in retrospect, he had done precisely the same thing during their dance the night of the Vengerburg ball. Perhaps he’s merely trying to break even.

“I shall trespass on your time no longer,” Sir Geralt says suddenly, jolting Jaskier out of his thoughts as he rises and bows shortly. “Please convey my regards to Mrs. Ferrant and her sister.” He waves a hand as Jaskier goes to stand and see him off. “Uh, no, no. Please, don’t trouble yourself.” With one last lingering look, Geralt turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. 

Alone once again, Jaskier sighs and slumps in his chair, more confused than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My new fic Iaomai (To Make Whole) has gotten a ton of love and support, so I'd just like to thank everyone who's read that and left kudos, comments, or bookmarks! I really appreciate it!!
> 
> Everyone who's seen or read Pride and Prejudice knows what's going to happen in the next chapter... a bit of rain, a bit of awkwardness, a lot of insults!


	14. Chapter 14

The sky above is cloudy, growing darker by the second, but Jaskier can’t take it upon himself to return to the house so soon. They will have left Tretogor by the end of the week, and even if there are a few things he will miss – the walks, Essi, and perhaps even General Eskel being the chief ones – he is eager to return to Lettenhove, and to see Triss again. Around him the trees block out most of the clouds, a welcome distraction from any of the condescension he can expect to receive the moment he is rejoined by his cousin or his cousin’s patrons.

“Master Julian!” comes General Eskel’s voice and he turns in time to see the man hurry to catch up, his hat waving in salutation. “I’ve been making the tour of the park, as I do every year,” he explains, an easy smile on his face. “Shall we take this way together?”

Jaskier smiles back, taking the offered arm. “With pleasure,” he agrees readily, allowing the General to turn them down one of the side paths. It’s still quiet outside – the calm before the storm – and it seems the perfect time to bring up a topic that’s been bothering him ever since Geralt and his cousin arrived. “Do you know Lady Yennefer and her close friends?” he asks, carefully keeping his tone light.

“I know her friends only a little,” Eskel replies, brow furrowed as he thinks. “But Lady Yennefer is a pleasant, honourable woman. She’s a great friend of Geralt’s.”

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier laughs, personally thinking that it may be a bit of an understatement. “Sir Geralt is uncommonly kind to Lady Yennefer, and takes a prodigious deal of care for her, though I daresay she does not need it.”

Eskel grins. “You are right in that respect.” He glances over, and although he seems amused and content, his forehead is still creased. “I believe he feels he ought to look out for her, though she can do it herself. I do understand, however, that he congratulates himself on having lately saved Lady Yennefer the inconvenience of a most imprudent marriage.”

Jaskier looks up sharply. “Did Sir Geralt give his reason for this interference?”

“I understand there were some very strong objections to the lady.” Eskel shrugs. “I do not know the particulars.”

“And why was he to judge?” Jaskier presses, fighting hard to keep his tone level, but it must not work, for Eskel stops walking and turns to look at him curiously.

“You are disposed to think his interference officious?”

“I do not see what right Sir Geralt had to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy,” Jaskier says, forcing himself to laugh a little at the end. It seems to work, as Eskel leads them onwards. “But, as you say, we know none of the particulars. Perhaps there was not much affection in the case.”

Eskel hums, sounding for a moment so scarily like his cousin that Jaskier blinks. “Hmm, perhaps not,” he concedes, and Jaskier relaxes, sure he’s managed to play off his interest in the matter. “But if that were the case, it would lessen the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly, don’t you think?”

“Oh, indeed,” Jaskier gets out, removing his arm from his company’s elbow and looking away, sufficiently overwhelmed by the information that’s just been presented to him. If the reason Triss hadn’t heard from Lady Yennefer was because Sir Geralt obstructed the match, well, that changes things. He doesn’t notice Eskel watching him in confusion and no little concern until the man speaks, frowning all the while.

“Master Julian, are you unwell?” he asks, stepping closer with an arm stretched out as if to offer support.

“A sudden headache,” Jaskier lies, waving away Eskel’s help. “Perhaps I’ve walked too far today. I think I shall take the shorter way back to my cousin’s house.”

Eskel takes another step forward. “Let me escort you,” he offers kindly. “Please, it would be remiss of me to allow you to go alone whilst you are not well. Besides, I believe I just felt a drop of rain, and I should not like you to be caught in it alone.”

“I beg you not to worry,” Jaskier urges, smiling as reassuringly as he can and patting the man’s hand. “Truly, do not trouble yourself. I think I should prefer the solitude for now.”

“If you’re sure,” Eskel says dubiously, shifting his weight from his right foot to his left. “Your cousin is still at Tretogor, I believe, I shall inform him of your return to his house.”

Jaskier inclines his head. “Thank you, sir. I wish you a pleasant day.” He sees Eskel nod and open his mouth again but turns away before he can answer, the excuse of a headache no longer wholly untrue as a pounding begins inside his head, worsened by the rampage of new information battering his mind. Rain drops land on his coat as he crosses the small bridge over the stream, catching sight of the pillars of the summer house up ahead as the weather doesn’t let up. He breaks out into a run, making it to the building and onto the portico, wet but not entirely drenched.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, staring at the rain while replaying Eskel’s words in his mind. It’s not just anger on Triss’ behalf, anymore, it’s a touch of betrayal that he certainly was not expecting to feel sourced from Sir Geralt. He has no relation to the man, nothing but contempt, and as such the feeling is entirely inexplicable.

“Julian!” he hears from in the rain, and the voice and stature of the figure is so similar that for half a second Jaskier thinks it’s merely Eskel, having changed his mind and coming to check on him. There’s no mistaking that white hair, however, and barely a second later Sir Geralt steps up to join him under the shelter of the portico.

“Sir Geralt,” Jaskier greets, as politely as he can given what he’s just learned.

“Julian,” Geralt repeats, clothes clinging to his frame like a second skin and white hair shadowed a little by the rain. “I came across Eskel on his way back to the house. He told me you had decided to return.”

Jaskier nods stiffly. “I have, sir. The rain hit before I could make it.”

“Of course,” Geralt agrees readily, and continues watching him intently. Jaskier sighs, looking out into the rain. The sky is lighter than one would expect from a full spring storm, so he can only hope that it’s just a day for passing showers. At least then he’ll be able to escape his company reasonably soon.

He’s not entirely sure how long they stand there in silence – at least a quarter of an hour, he thinks, and when he turns to face the other man the rain is getting lighter and he realises with a start that Geralt hasn’t taken his eyes off of him the entire time. He swallows.

“You look as though you have something to say, sir,” Jaskier says coolly, breaking the silence and refusing to flinch when the man looks up at him in surprise. “As have I,” he continues before the other can speak. “The rain is letting up, and I know that we are but a few minutes from my cousin’s house. Let us go there so we may speak plainly.” Without waiting for an answer, he stalks off of the portico and into the rain, which is steadily letting up. He hears footsteps behind him and realises that he’s both pleased and disappointed, but shrugs it off. 

By the time they make it to the house – Jaskier forging determinedly ahead and Sir Geralt cautiously trailing behind – the rain has become the lightest of drizzles, not that it affects much with both of them already wet through. A maid opens the door for them, her eyes widening in horror, but Jaskier only accepts one of the towels she offers, waving her off and advancing into the parlour as he wipes down as much as he can.

He turns around after hearing the door to the room shut, setting the towel down and facing Sir Geralt with a blank expression. The man’s eyes flicker upwards briefly, and Jaskier knows that his hair must be mussed, but has neither the presence of mind nor the care to fix it. He stands, waiting expectantly.

Geralt seems to catch on quickly, if the way he tenses is any indication. He lays his towel over the edge of a chair, his hair – Jaskier notices with a touch of annoyance – is still perfect, if rather wet. There’s another brief silence as the man appears to collect his thoughts, only culminating when he breathes out shakily and looks Jaskier directly in the eyes.

“In vain I have struggled,” he starts, and Jaskier blinks at the unexpected words. “It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and… and _love_ you.”

_What_.

Jaskier isn’t sure what exactly he _had_ been expecting, but a declaration of admiration and love from the man he’s taunted and insulted and who’s appeared displeased and unattached at every turn is not it. He can’t stop staring, somehow thinking that this is all some sort of waking nightmare.

“In declaring myself thus, I am fully aware that I will be going expressly against the wishes of my family, my friends, and, I hardly need add, my own better judgement.” The man as something in his hand, but Jaskier can’t focus on it as the words wash over him, especially with how inaccurate they sound. “The relative situation of our families is such that any alliance between us must be regarded as a highly reprehensible connection. Indeed, as a rational man, I cannot but regard it as such myself, but it cannot be helped” Geralt continues, almost nervously.

It’s with a numb sort of shock that Jaskier belatedly realises the man is fiddling with a piece of paper, waterlogged enough that the writing on it is illegible. He’s glaring, and twitching, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Jaskier thinks he must have written down what he had wanted to say, only to have his plans foiled by the rain. It’s sort of… _sweet_ , actually, if only his words weren’t so offensive.

Geralt breathes in, closing his eyes for a second as Jaskier still can do nothing but stare, hoping that he’s at least slightly getting his ire across. “Almost from the earliest moments of our acquaintance, I have come to feel for you a… a _passionate_ … admiration and regard.” He sounds even more uncomfortable, now, and Jaskier is well aware that this is the most he’s ever heard the man speak. “Which, despite all my struggles, has overcome every rational objection, and I beg you, most fervently, to relieve my suffering and do me the honour of accepting my hand.” 

The words finally come to a stop and Jaskier faintly notes that the man appears scared, almost, if someone of his stature and countenance can be scared. Despite that, however, the meaning of the words is not something he can take lightly.

Jaskier takes a moment to consider the man before him, keen on knowing one thing before he gives his response. "If I give you my answer, will you strike me?"

The man looks confused. " _Strike_ you?" he repeats, warily.

"Strike me, yes," Jaskier confirms, nodding. "At least, that is what happened the last time I was proposed to. I would like to be assured it will not happen again before I continue."

Geralt looks - for lack of a better word - horrified. "I _swear_ to you I won't," he promises, voice hoarse. " _Who dared_ -" he cuts himself off, eyes widening and nostrils flaring in a manner reminiscent of a raging bull about to stampede. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet and deadly, far more terrifying than his shouting. “Your cousin.”

"It is not of consequence," Jaskier waves the statement away, a bit surer of himself. He doesn't fully trust Geralt, naturally - but he'll take the man's word for what it is. Now, though, he turns his mind back onto the topic at hand, and all at once the affront bubbles back up as he recalls what exactly was just said. “It such consequences as these, I believe the established mode is to express a sense of obligation, but I cannot.”

Geralt holds his breath, hands behind his back.

“Sir, I have never desired your good opinion,” Jaskier begins, finally allowing the anger and bitterness to seep into his tone. “And you have _certainly_ bestowed it most unwillingly. I appreciate the struggle you have been through, and I am very sorry to have caused you pain. Believe me, it was unconsciously done, and I hope will be of short duration.”

There are a few drops of water dripping from where Sir Geralt has clenched his fist, presumably from the sad ruin of the paper he was holding. He takes a step back and turns, almost skittishly. “Is this your reply?” he asks, turning back to face him.

Jaskier squares his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

“No.”

Geralt still looks confused. “Are you _rejecting_ me?”

There’s a short silence as Jaskier thinks best how to order his words, because _yes_ , he is _definitely_ rejecting the man. “I’m sure that the feelings which – as you’ve told me – have hindered your regard, will help you in overcoming it.”

The silence stretches on, terrible and restricting. Geralt has gone pale, though Jaskier wasn’t sure that was entirely possible.

“Might I ask,” Geralt begins, voice so even it has to be concealing greater emotion. “Why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus repulsed?”

Jaskier shakes is head in a futile attempt to clear it and have a more civil conversation. It’s entirely in vain, he knows this. “I might as well enquire why, with so evident a design of insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your better judgement,” he retorts, hands curled into fists and hanging by his side. “If I was uncivil, that was some excuse –“

Geralt looks taken aback. “Believe me, I didn’t mean –“

“But I have other reasons to think ill of you,” Jaskier cuts him off, eyes blazing in the way Triss says makes people realise that he’s not what they were expecting. “You know very well that I have.”

“What reasons?” the man asks, and Jaskier scoffs.

“Do you think that anything might tempt me to accept the man who has ruined, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?” he all but shouts, and there’s a beat of silence that follows his words. Geralt blinks, looking as though he’s been struck across the face, but Jaskier can’t find it in himself to care. “Do you deny it, Sir Geralt?” he spits, fuming. “That you separated a young couple who loved each other, exposing your friend to the censure of the world for caprice, and my sister to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind?”

Geralt seems to have found his voice again. “I do not deny it,” he says simply, and the collected manner in which he utters those words almost makes Jaskier snap.

“Then _how_ could you do it?” he blurts out, hurt and angry and unable to fully keep a handle on his emotions.

“Because I believed your sister to indifferent to her.”

Jaskier can’t believe his ears. “ _Indifferent_?”

“I watched them most carefully,” Geralt tries to explain, but it’s too late for that. “I realised my friend’s attachment was much deeper than hers.”

“That’s because she’s _shy_!” Jaskier snaps. “Tell me, if she were so unattached, why did she go to Vizima to see her? Why did she write letters to your friend?”

Geralt stares. “Letters?”

“Yes, _letters_!” Jaskier waves his hands, more worked up than he’s been in a long while. “If you are such a poor judge of character –“

The man’s eyes harden. “Yennefer was persuaded that she did not feel strongly for her.”

“Because _you_ suggested it!”

“I did it for her own good!”

“My sister hardly shows her true feelings to _me_!” Jaskier shouts – fully, this time, and pauses to take a breath. He can barely stand to look at the man across from him, who has the nerve to be angry _and_ embarrassed. “I suppose you suspect that her fortune had some bearing on the matter?”

“ _No_!” Geralt denies immediately. “I wouldn’t do your sister the dishonour. Though, it was suggested –“ he stops, looking pained, but Jaskier has no interest in censure.

“What was?” he demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

Geralt hesitates. “It was made perfectly clear that an advantageous marriage…”

“Did my sister give that impression?” Jaskier presses.

Geralt closes his eyes briefly. “No,” he admits, following by an awkward pause. “There was, however, I have to admit… the _matter_ of your family…”

“My family,” Jaskier repeats slowly. “Our want of connection, is that it? Lady Yennefer didn’t vex herself about that!”

“No, it was… more than that.” Geralt wrings his hands.

“ _How_ , sir?”

“It…” Geralt pauses again, less angry now and very uncomfortable. He takes a deep breath before he speaks. “It pains me to say this, but it was the lack of propriety shown by your mother, your younger sisters – even, on occasion, your father.” He stops, glancing up nervously, and Jaskier feels his face heating up at the man’s words. He’s not wrong, but Jaskier has no intention of admitting it. “Forgive me,” Geralt continues, pacing up and down the room. “You and your sister – I must exclude from this.” He stops, gazing at Jaskier with an expression Jaskier does not care to decipher, glaring at him in return with a blaze of fury and misery.

“I see,” he snaps, deciding to bring up the _other_ reason he has, uncomfortable with the way Sir Geralt watches him. “And what about Mr. Voorhis?”

Geralt’s eyes narrow. “Mr. Voorhis?”

“What excuse can you give for your behaviour to him?” He sets his jaw, waiting expectantly for the lies and declarations of innocence the man is likely to start spewing.

“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns!” Geralt says harshly, walking to the opposite corner.

Jaskier can feel tears pricking at his eyes, but he hasn’t let them spill yet, and he won’t do so now. “I do,” he says evenly, voice trembling slightly. “He told me of his misfortunes!”

“His _misfortunes_ ,” Geralt spits, turning around and pacing to the other side of the room. “Yes, his _misfortunes_ have been great indeed!”

“And of your infliction,” Jaskier continues, hands shaking along with his voice, now. “You have reduced him to his present state of poverty, and yet you can treat his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule.”

Geralt tilts his head, mouth open disbelievingly. “And _this_ is your opinion of me?” he asks, voice soft, almost a whisper. He takes a careful step back. “My faults by this calculation are heavy indeed. Thank you, for explaining it so fully. Perhaps these offences might have been overlooked, if your pride had not been hurt –“

Jaskier’s jaw drops. “ _My_ pride?”

“- by my honestly in admitting scruples about our relationship,” Geralt finishes, not paying Jaskier’s words any heed, and _oh_ , that stings. Not that he’d expected anything else, mind. “Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your circumstances?” he goes on. “To congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly below my own?”

“You are mistaken, Sir Geralt,” Jaskier says lowly, rounding on the man. “The mode of your declaration merely spared me _any_ concern I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.” Geralt’s mouth opens as if to retort, but Jaskier makes no room to allow him to speak. “You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it,” he continues. “From the very beginning, your manners impressed me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain for the feelings of others. I had not known you a month before I felt you were the _last_ man in the world whom I could _ever_ marry.”

“You have said quite enough,” Geralt says before he can go on, taking another step towards the door. “I _perfectly_ comprehend your feelings. And now have only to be ashamed of what my own have been.” He turns the knob, bowing once, stiffly. “Please forgive me for having taken up your time.”

He leaves, closing the door behind him and leaving Jaskier alone in the parlour, the only indication that he was never alone the watermarks and footprints left on the floor. Reaching up to rub at his eyes, Jaskier lowers his head with a sigh and collapses into the nearest chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Geralt wrote what he _meant_ to say on a piece of paper. Unfortunately, the rain ruined that for him...


	15. Chapter 15

Eskel finds him that evening, hunched down in front of the fire in his room. He’d come straight back to Tretogor Park after the disastrous meeting in the rain, and all he’d done was avoid his uncle and Lady Eilhart to go change clothes, remaining before the fireplace even as the bell for supper rang out. He hears the door open and slam shut in quick succession, footsteps sounding out as they cross the room.

“Alright,” Eskel starts, and out of the corner of his eye Geralt can see him standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest. “What happened?”

Geralt ignores him, watching the flames flicker in the hearth and eyeing the bit of ruined paper laid out on the floor before his feet.

“It’s not _nothing_ , before you decide to use that excuse.” There’s a small thud, and Geralt glances over to see that Eskel is settled cross-legged on the floor, back leant against the leg of his bed. “You’ve been brooding up here all afternoon and through supper.”

“Not brooding,” Geralt grunts.

His cousin sighs. “I’m not going to argue semantics with you,” he says, shifting in order to get comfortable. “But yes, you are. You’re a _mess_ , so, come on. Spill.”

Geralt hesitates. Eskel had teased him about Julian, but no more than Yennefer or Ciri. To be honest, he’s probably more okay with Eskel’s teasing, because it’s less likely that his cousin would say something to Julian, or anyone else for that matter. He may as well tell him, and rip the bandage off in one go. “I proposed to him.”

There’s a bark of surprised laughter just behind him. “Good one,” Eskel chuckles, and Geralt can’t stop the tiny flinch he makes. Eskel’s grin drops immediately and he scrambles forward so he’s at his side, face slack and shocked. “Fuck, you’re _serious_.”

Geralt can’t bring himself to say anything, so he simply nods.

“Right,” Eskel breathes out after a moment, running a hand through his dark hair. “Alright, yeah. Huh. _Right_. So, I’m assuming…” he winces, presumably thinking how to put it delicately. “I’m assuming he… _didn’t_ accept you, then?” He waves a hand at his cousin. “Considering all… _this_?”

“No, he didn’t accept,” Geralt grits out, still staring resolutely at the fire. He has no wish to see the pity that’s sure to be present on the other man’s face.

“Alright,” Eskel says slowly, and Geralt can just make out that he’s nodding to himself. “Alright, then. Can I… can I ask what happened?”

Geralt shrugs. “I asked him. He said no.”

“That’s not all,” Eskel despairs, swatting at his arm. “I know you; you wouldn’t just blurt it out.” He pauses, backtracking. “Alright, _fine_ , maybe you would. It’s quite like you, actually. But I can’t imagine _Julian_ would have left it at a simple ‘no’.”

“He didn’t.” The paper on the floor in front of him is still sitting there, the words still smudged and mostly illegible, though now that is has dried, parts of it are clear. Geralt reaches for it, sliding it across the floorboards to Eskel. “This is what I _meant_ to say. The rain rather… ruined that for me.”

Eskel is quiet for a moment, and when Geralt glances over, there’s a small smile playing on his lips. “You wrote it down,” he says softly, and Geralt has to look away again to hide his expression. “That’s… _adorable_ , frankly.” A slight pause. “Wait, if the rain ruined it, and things went so badly… what _did_ you say?” When no reply seems forthcoming, he leans forward to place a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Geralt?”

Geralt swallows. “I… I may have insulted him and his family,” he admits gruffly, refusing to turn around or look anywhere but right in front of him. “It was not tactful of me.”

“No, I can imagine not,” Eskel says slowly, a rueful lilt to his tone. “I can understand him not being pleased with those words.”

“He was also mad that I concealed his sister’s being in town from Yen,” Geralt says, and Eskel is quiet a moment, before he suddenly gasps. When he turns, he can see that all the colour has drained from his cousin’s face, the scars the only bit of pink remaining.

“His sister,” he repeats, voice edged with horror. “Oh fuck, she’s his _sister_. Shit, Geralt, I _swear_ I didn’t know.”

Geralt stares at him. “What did you do?”

“I…” Eskel hesitates. “I may have told him that you stopped an improper attachment from taking place?” he tries, wincing at his own words. “I didn’t know the particulars, let alone that it was his sister. We were just talking!” 

Geralt keeps staring.

“I had _no_ idea,” Eskel declares again. “I really didn’t. I’d only heard bits from Miss Sabrina and Mr. Istredd – and normally I wouldn’t have paid them much heed – but Madam Tissaia mentioned that a certain person hadn’t called upon Yennefer, and Yen seemed really upset anyways, and –“

“ _Eskel_ ,” Geralt interrupts, massaging his forehead with one hand and waving the other at his cousin to stop the flow of words. He frowns, then, as the names catch up to him. “Wait, did you say Sabrina and Istredd?”

“I did,” Eskel confirms, nodding, though he still looks concerned, though it’s now tinged with confusion. “Why?”

Geralt puts his head in his hands, a wave of regret washing over him. “Shit,” he breathes, closing his eyes in the vain hope that it will calm him. “Fuck, _shit_.”

“What is it?” Eskel asks, leaning forward.

“Letters,” Geralt growls, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling. “He said Triss sent letters.”

“ _And_?” Eskel prompts.

Geralt sighs, thinking back to the nightmare of a conversation. “I didn’t tell Yen about Miss Triss Pankratz being in town because I thought she did not care for Yen the same way, not enough to make any effort.” He hears his cousin let out a noise of realisation, and he scowls, angry both at himself and at Sabrina and Istredd for being the most likely culprits. “I suppose she did make an effort, only for it to be thwarted.”

“Alright.” Eskel appears to be thinking, brow furrowed. “Alright, so in that, at least, we _can_ find a solution. Just tell Yennefer what has happened, and you can return to Julian and be in his good graces.”

“It’s not that simple.” Geralt sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know Yen. She won’t accept it easily, especially when I tell her my own involvement. And she trusts Sabrina and Istredd. She may not like them wholly, but without their admission we have no proof.” He leans forward, resting his head in his hands. “It’s best if for now, we leave it.”

Eskel doesn’t speak for about a moment, but from his position Geralt can see him frowning. “For the record,” he starts after another minute. “I think you’re wrong, but I won’t argue. Maybe you could speak to Julian again, explain things a bit better?” Another small silence. “ _Apologise_?”

Geralt snorts. “Do you really think he’d consent to see me?” Beside him, Eskel murmurs in agreement, and he lifts his head from his hands, mouth twisting as he remembers the rest of the conversation – more like _argument_ – he’d had with Julian. “Besides, that’s not the only reason he thinks ill of me. He happens to be acquainted with Morvran Voorhis.”

“Well, shit,” Eskel swears, and Geralt couldn’t have put it better himself. “Alright, that _is_ an issue. I assume, by what’s happened, that son of a bitch managed to win Julian over?”

“And the entire town,” Geralt grunts, running a hand through his hair. “Twisted the events so all the blame fell on me, I believe.”

“Alright.” Eskel nods. “I’m going to suggest _not_ interacting with Julian for the time being, Things are sure to get… explosive, if you do.” He pauses, continuing after Geralt grunts in acknowledgment. “If you’re not going to rectify the situation with Yennefer quite yet, at the very least you can dissuade him of his notion to admire Voorhis.” He holds up a hand to stop his idea being protested. “I’m not saying talk to him, but write a letter. One that explains your dealings with that fucker.”

Geralt stays quiet, thinking it over. It’s not a bad idea, and it’s non-confrontational – which, despite not wanting to admit to it, Eskel is in the right about. “Fine,” he snaps, and pushes himself to his feet for the first time since he’d gotten back to his room, walking straight to his desk and sitting down. “I’ll tell him what happened.”

* * *

The day after Jaskier’s second marriage proposal – or, if he’s being honest with himself, his second _respectable_ marriage proposal – dawns bright and clear, and he has no wish to remain indoors. He and Ellen will be departing by the end of the week, and he’d like to wander through the woods and parks at least once more before they go.

Essi calls to him from the dining room, where she and her sister are finishing their breakfast with Mr. Ferrant. Jaskier stops, ducking through the door with his coat already in his hand.

“Oh, you do look pale, Jaskier,” Essi tuts, standing up and watching him anxiously. She’d been worrying since her return yesterday afternoon, but Jaskier had not told her yet what had occurred. “Why don’t you have some breakfast? I’m sure it will do you good.”

Jaskier smiles as best he can, shaking his head. “Oh, no, I’m well, Essi,” he assures her. “I… I think I’ve stayed indoors too long. Fresh air and exercise is all I need. The woods around Tretogor are so beautiful this time of year.”

Essi nods, sitting back down, but Mr. Ferrant opens his mouth as if to say something. Jaskier quickly leaves, unwilling to stay anywhere near the man today. The excitement of yesterday has worn off, and he’d rather be alone for the time being. 

The woods are lovely still, as he’d thought, and he finds himself thinking about nothing in particular as he walks, striving to keep his mind away from the discussion with Sir Geralt the day before. It’s still fresh in his mind, but there’s a faint glimmer of hope that because of it he’ll never have to see the gentleman again, not that it’s a loss he shall mourn.

Sir Geralt is taciturn, and unpleasant, and utterly rude and proud, and even if Jaskier grudgingly admits to himself that he is exceedingly attractive, that does not take away from the wholly repulsive demeanour he has. Generally, Jaskier would at least attempt to see some of the good in him, but in this case, he finds he cannot.

Without thinking his feet carry him along a small path and he blinks when he realises where it leads – right up to the portico of the summerhouse he’d attempted to take refuge in yesterday. He sighs, laying a hand on one of the columns and slumping forward to rest his forehead against the smooth stone.

A branch snaps behind him and he jumps, very nearly smashing his head into the column, but stopping himself in time and whirling around to face the very man he’s trying to escape.

“Master Julian,” comes the man’s voice, as gruff and unfeeling as ever.

Jaskier straightens, placing his hands behind his back as he regards the man coolly. “Sir Geralt.”

“I’ve been walking the grove some time in hope of meeting you,” Geralt says, taking a step forward. Normally, Jaskier might find that sentence sweet, or endearing – were it to come from anyone else. The man approaches, holding an envelope in his hand, and Jaskier refuses to meet his gaze. “Will you do me the honour of reading this letter?”

Trying not to acknowledge the man more than he absolutely has to, Jaskier nods sharply, reaching for the envelope and holding it loosely. Geralt hesitates a moment longer, only to abruptly close his mouth and bow quickly, turning on his heel and striding away. By the time Jaskier shifts and turns to look, he’s long gone – the only evidence of his ever being there the letter clutched in his fingers.

Blinking, Jaskier looks down to the envelope, where his name is scrawled on it in messy letters. They’re neat enough, he supposes, perfectly legible, but it’s clear they’re from a hand that has not taken the time to cultivate his penmanship, likely more used to the hilt of a weapon or the reins of a horse than a pen. He sighs, tearing his eyes away from it and looking for a place to sit, resigning himself to the fate of reading the letter. At the very least, he muses as he walks towards one of the benches on the summerhouse’s portico, at least it will give him no further reason to have any cares for Sir Geralt.

Taking a deep breath, he opens the letter and begins to read. 

“To Master Julian Pankratz,” it begins, in the same messy writing as the name on the front. “Be not alarmed on receiving this letter, that it contain any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers which were, yesterday, so disgusting to you.” At that, Jaskier chuckles. _Disgusting_ is indeed a fitting word for it. “But I must be allowed to defend myself against the charges laid at my door,” the letter continues, and Jaskier’s smile drops. “In particular, those relating to Mr. Voorhis, which, if true, would be grievous; but are wholly unfounded and which I can only refute by laying before you his connection with my family.” 

There are a couple of crossed out words, here, and Jaskier thinks he can almost recognise a curse, but continues without trying to decipher them quite yet. “Mr. Voorhis was the ward of my father, who was fond of him, and held in esteem. We were friends as boys, and my father supported him at school and further education.” Jaskier nods to himself. So far, the events are known to him. “My father had hoped that he would make religion his profession, but by then Morvran Voorhis’ habits were as dissolute as his manners were engaging. My own father died two years ago, and his attachment to Mr. Voorhis was, to the last, so steady that he desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it was vacant.”

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the thought that Sir Geralt in writing appears different to the Sir Geralt in person crops up, and Jaskier bites back another laugh.

“Mr. Voorhis declined any interest in the temple as a career, but requested, and was granted, the sum of three thousand crowns instead of the living.”

At that, Jaskier frowns. He hadn’t been told _that_.

“He expressed an intention of studying the law,” the letter reads. “I wished him to be sincere, and all connection between us seemed dissolved. Being free from all restraint, his life was one of idleness and dissipation. How he lived, I know not, but last summer our paths crossed again under the most painful circumstances, which I would wish to forget.”

More crossed out words.

“My ward, Cirilla, was left to the guardianship of myself, though General Eskel and Lady Yennefer take an eager interest in her upbringing.” The elusive ward has something to do with this, Jaskier realises. Perhaps the reason that she did not accompany her guardian on his trip to Lettenhove. “About a year ago, she was taken from school to Kerack, and placed in the care of a governess, in whose character we were deceived. Mr. Voorhis followed, undoubtedly by design. She was persuaded to believe herself to trust him, and even consent to go away with him. She was then but twelve years old.”

At that, Jaskier pauses, reading the lines again before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He can’t fully believe it, not yet, but something in the writing and what he knows of Sir Geralt compels him to think the words trustworthy, though it’s stirring up a storm inside his mind. His opinions of Geralt have always been low, and those of Voorhis high, and to have his own thoughts suddenly turned over is more than he was expecting to be dealing with today. Exhaling, he opens his eyes and resolves to finish the letter before making any final judgement.

“I joined them unexpectedly,” Geralt writes. “Unable to support any deception from a guardian whom she looked up to almost as a father, she acknowledged the whole plan to be at once. You may imagine how I felt, and how I acted.” _Angrily_ , Jaskier thinks, followed by the realisation that it was rightly so. “Mr. Voorhis left the place immediately and relinquished his object, which was, of course, my ward’s fortune of fifty thousand crowns and her lands and titles.”

Jaskier whistles lowly.

“A secondary motive must have been to revenge himself upon me,” he continues, and yes, Jaskier concedes that that would make sense. It’s not the route he would have taken, nor anyone even slightly respectable, and he has to shake his head to try and clear it before he goes on. “Had he succeeded; his revenge would have been complete. This, Master Julian, is a faithful narrative of all my dealings with Mr. Voorhis. And for its truth, I can appeal to the testimony of General Eskel, who knows every particular of these transactions. I know not under what form of falsehood Mr. Voorhis imposed himself on you, but I hope you will acquit me of cruelty towards him."

That’s… _fair_ , actually, Jaskier realises. As much as he dislikes Sir Geralt – still does, one letter does not change almost half a year of distaste – he can’t deny that having read his words the man seems genuine, and because of the declaration at the beginning of the letter, is not telling him this for ulterior motive, merely to set things straight. He can respect that, at least.

“The other charge levelled at me is that, regardless of the sentiments of either party, I detached Lady Yennefer from your sister. I have no wish to deny this, nor can I blame myself for any of my actions in this matter.”

_Well_ , then. Perhaps Sir Geralt is still as much of an asshole as Jaskier believed him to be.

“I had not long been in Lettenhove before I saw that Lady Yennefer admired your sister, but it was not until the dance at Vengerburg that I suspected a serious attachment.” _Idiot_ , Jaskier thinks, using the word that the man had called him, once. Anyone could have seen it. “Her partiality was clear, and while she received her attentions with pleasure, I did not detect any symptoms of peculiar regard. The serenity of her countenance convinced me that her heart was not likely to be easily touched.”

Angered, now, Jaskier leaps to his feet, snatching up the letter and nearly crushing it. “Insufferable presumption,” he hisses, marching off the portico back in the direction of his cousin’s house, glancing down at the next line as he goes. 

“I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it, I believed it on impartial conviction.”

“Oh, very impartial,” Jaskier scoffs, coming in sight of the house and deciding to not read any more until he was comfortably situated in his room, where he could beat a pillow against the wall, or some such.

Up ahead, the door to the house opens and Ellen darts out, waving her arms wildly. “You have missed the two gentlemen!” she shouts, bounding up to him with cheeks tinged pink. “They came to take their leave!”

At that, Jaskier turns, frowning. “Sir Geralt came _here_?” he asks, and Ellen nods.

“Yes, but he went away again directly,” she reports, following when he starts walking again, headed for the door. “But General Eskel waited for you for _over_ half an hour! And now they are both back at Tretogor with Mr. Ferrant to bid their farewells, but then they shall be gone out of the county and into the city!”

Jaskier’s lip twitches as he reaches the stairs. “I daresay we shall be able to bear the deprivation,” he quips, rushing past Essi as he climbs the stairs, locking the door to his room and leaving the sisters confused on the other side. He throws off his coat, collapsing onto his bed before reaching back for the letter.

“As to my objections to the marriage, the situation of your family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to the total want of respect they displayed. My friend left Vengerburg for Vizima the same week, as I’m sure you recall.” Jaskier does. He remembers the meeting in town, remembers how out of sorts Lady Yennefer had seemed. “In Vizima it was not difficult to convince her of your sister’s indifference to her. I cannot blame myself for having done this much.”

“For destroying all her hope of happiness?” Jaskier huffs. “Yes, I am sure you do not blame yourself, _hateful_ man!”

“There is but one part of my conduct in the affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction.” Jaskier raises an eyebrow at that, astonished that Geralt would admit to any faults. “That is, that I concealed from her your sister’s being in town. Perhaps this concealment was beneath me. I knew she was in Vizima, but had not heard of her calling or having sent any letters, and for that, I offer my regrets. The matter is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject, I have nothing more to say.”

He can’t quite stop himself from crushing the paper into a ball, hurling it away so it comes to rest in the corner of his room. “Insufferable,” Jaskier breathes out, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. He’s deigned to reconsider his stance on the whole affair with Voorhis, not wanting to believe that anyone, even someone as disagreeable as Sir Geralt, would degrade their own ward at so young an age with a false tale. On that account, at least, he can accept his own mistake in believing Mr. Voorhis so readily.

Downstairs, he hears the bell ring for lunch, and closes his eyes to try and avoid it.

* * *

Their uncle is loath to see them go, especially as it has not been the full month they promised, but Geralt can’t stand to spend another second in this place and Eskel seems hardly more likely to want to stay. Even without the reminders of Julian hanging over the house, he’s eager to get back to Vizima and see Ciri again, and perhaps parse what he can find out about Triss Pankratz. 

In the hall his uncle and Lady Eilhart are saying their goodbyes to Eskel, who shoots him a pleading look over their heads. Geralt sends him a smirk, looking over his shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps to see the count’s daughter being led into the room by Mr. Ferrant.

Ah, yes. He has _one_ order of business left at Tretogor after all.

“Mr. Ferrant,” he calls, and the man looks up in surprise before plastering a wide and obviously fake smile on his face. Geralt can’t help but growl lowly, resisting the urge to confront the man here in the middle of the hall in front of everyone. The man lets go of Maria’s arm, walking up to Geralt expectantly. “Let us step aside,” he says, as calmly as possible, gesturing to the door to the music room. 

Mr. Ferrant’s smile falters slightly, but acquiesces, stepping through into the room and shutting the door behind him.

As soon as the man turns back around Geralt grabs the front of his shirt, shoving him back against the wall and hoisting him up onto his toes. “Mr. Ferrant,” he says again, snarl cutting off the man’s shocked gasp. “If you ever, _ever_ , lay a finger on Julian Pankratz again, I will ensure that you suffer the loss of everything you hold dear.”

The man’s eyes widen even more.

“Count Sigismund is my uncle, as you recall,” Geralt continues, keeping his voice low but still harsh. “I believe you enjoy having his patronage. If I so much as hear a _whisper_ that Julian has been even _inconvenienced_ by you, you will soon find yourself cut off and with no prospects.” He pauses, leaning even closer and revelling in the way the man’s breath hitches. “You are not to touch him, not to look at him, not to speak to him without the _utmost_ respect. Do I make myself clear?”

Mr. Ferrant nods frantically, and Geralt releases him, stepping away.

“Good.” He sends the man one last glare as he goes to open the door. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we find out what Mr. Voorhis really is, and Geralt realises that he may be just a bit of an idiot.  
> I'm sorry about the chunks of text when it came to the letter - but hopefully everything else is good! And don't worry, in a few chapters these idiots will be back together!


	16. Chapter 16

Leaving Tretogor is utter bliss.

Jaskier does have _some_ good memories, he’ll admit that – it was lovely seeing Essi again, and he quite enjoyed the company of Eskel. As for the rest… well, it’s a trip he’d rather forget. He won’t, though, not until he’s told Triss everything, and hopefully be able to drown his woes once they’re all settled back together in Lettenhove. It’s not far, now, he can see the hint of the buildings in the distance.

So, while the visit wasn’t wholly bad, it’s still nice to have left. Everything had seemed to be too much change, and a break now that he’s returning home is exceedingly welcome.

Even Mr. Ferrant had seemed different there, towards the end. He’d been mostly ignoring Jaskier throughout their stay anyways, but the final few days he had seemed to do it even more, ducking out of the room or path whenever he saw him approach – not that Jaskier minded too much.

“Oh, Jaskier,” Ellen sighs from beside him, clutching his arm with a giddy smile on her face. “I am so glad to be home, of course, but it seems only a day or two since we first left, and yet how many things have happened!”

“A great many, indeed,” Jaskier agrees, thinking to himself that many more happened than what the girl is aware of. He won’t tell her, though, he hadn’t even told Essi. He’ll save it for himself – and Triss, naturally.

Unaware of his internal ramblings, Ellen continues her awed recollections. “We dined nine times at Tretogor Park,” she gushes, much to the annoyance of the manservant and maid travelling in the carriage with them, who, unlike Jaskier, are unused to the complexities of having fifteen-year-old girls around. She sighs in delight. “Oh, how much I shall have to tell.”

“Indeed.” Jaskier smiles down at her indulgently, before turning to look out the window as Lettenhove grows ever nearer. He follows Ellen’s example and sighs as well, though it’s softer, so no one can hear. “How much I shall have to conceal.”

It only takes another ten minutes for the earthen road to transition to cobblestones as the carriage rolls into the centre of town, the wheels rattling against the stone until it slows to a halt. The manservant and maid alight first, likely rushing off to take care of the luggage and prepare it for when Sir Daven’s own coach comes to pick them up. Jaskier steps out after them, offering a hand to help Essi down and gazing around at his home with a happy eye. It’s nice to be back somewhere without disdainful company.

“Jaskier!” he hears a girl call and he whips around, looking up towards where the noise had come from. “ _Jaskier_!”

It’s Priscilla, hanging out of the upstairs window at the Eclipse Tavern, so far that Jaskier half expects her to tumble down. She pulls herself back inside once he waves, resigning himself to an afternoon with not one, but three young girls. Wherever Priscilla goes, Shani is sure to follow, and Ellen still hasn’t let go of his arm.

Sure enough, after they’re brought upstairs by a server, his two younger sisters are waiting for them, rushing them with hugs and greetings the second they step foot into the private room.

“Gods, your faces were a picture when you looked up at the window and saw us!” Priscilla giggles, pulling away from Ellen happily. “I’ll wager you didn’t expect we’d come to meet you, did you?”

Jaskier smiles, accepting the hug he receives in turn. “No, we did not,” he answers, slightly muffled from where his sister’s hair is against his mouth. “It’s good to see you.”

“Take off your coat,” Shani insists, flapping her hands at him inelegantly and collapsing into a seat at the table.

“There,” Priscilla says, dancing away from her brother and gesturing at the spread. “Is this not nice? Cold ham and pork and salads and every good thing, and we mean to treat you all – oh, but you must lend us the money.” She and Shani burst into giggles again and Jaskier rolls his eyes fondly as he unbuttons his coat. “We spent all ours,” Priscilla continues, picking up a bonnet from one of the side tables. “Look! I don’t think it’s very pretty, but I thought I might as well buy it as not.”

Shani makes a face, waving her brother over to sit next to her. “It’s vile, isn’t it, Jask?” she says in a stage whisper.

Jaskier grins, taking the offered seat and pouring himself some ale. “Very ugly,” he agrees, wincing at the dreadful combination of colours. He’d never wear something like that, _honestly_. “What possessed you to buy it, Priscilla?”

“There were two or three much uglier in the shop,” Priscilla defends. “I shall pull it to pieces as soon as we get home and see if I can make it up any better.” She tosses it aside, settling in across from her brother. “Well, it doesn’t signify what anyone wears at this rate, for the regiment will leave Lettenhove and will be at Novigrad for the whole summer. Our hearts are broken.”

_The regiment will leave Lettenhove_.

Jaskier’s head snaps up as he processes the words, Sir Geralt’s letter weighing heavily on his mind, sequestered away deep in the bottom of his bag for fear someone else would find it. He had – eventually – come to the conclusion that the man had been telling the truth about Voorhis, even if he’s still the most disagreeable man Jaskier had ever met and who had denied Triss her chance at happiness. Regardless, if the regiment is truly to be leaving, then that means Voorhis will as well – though he supposes it doesn’t make much difference, as last he’d heard the man was engaged to that young heiress.

Come to think about it, that does match the character Geralt had sketched of him.

“We want Father to take us all to Novigrad for the summer,” Shani pipes up, pouting. “But he said that he will not.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Jaskier says, decidedly more cheerful than before, reaching to help himself to some meat.

Ellen stares at him from her seat across the table. “But shouldn’t you like to go to Novigrad, Jask?” she asks, and he hesitates. Truthfully, he would, but he has no intention of going there whilst the militia are encamped.

“Oh, he would,” Priscilla says slyly, causing her brother to shoot her a glare. “Don’t look at me like that! He would love it above all things when he hears the news about a certain person we all know. Shall we tell him, Shani?”

The two break out into giggles again, and Shani nods. “Yes, and watch to see if he blushes!”

“Voorhis is _not_ to marry Miss la Valette after all,” Priscilla says, rounding in her chair to face Jaskier, but all he can think about is the resounding fact that his earlier hopes were unfounded, the man himself is still here for the time being. “He’s safe!”

“Perhaps we should say Miss la Valette is safe,” he says carefully, willing his frozen limbs to move again and cutting his meat so as to avoid having to look at either of his sisters.

Ellen seems concerned. “But was there a _very_ strong attraction between them, do you think?” she wonders, and Jaskier would pay anything for her to keep her childlike innocence.

At that, Priscilla scrunches up her nose while Shani makes a face. “Not on his side, I’m sure,” she scoffs. “I shouldn’t think he cared three straws about her. Who could about such a nasty, freckled little thing?” Jaskier gives her a look again, channeling Triss as best he can, but nothing seems to ever be enough to stop his youngest sister. “Stop it, Jask! I know you think as ill of her as I do. Pass the celery, Shani.” 

He thinks there may be a pause now, but no, of course not. He should know better. 

“Aren’t you glad we came to meet you?” Priscila continues, pouring liberal amounts of salt over her meal. “We shall be such a merry party on the journey home!”

They’re not a merry party, what with Priscilla and Shani bickering the whole time and Ellen once again refusing to let go of his arm. At the very least, he supposes – closing his eyes to see if that will help with his mounting headache – at the very least, they’re a good distraction from all that has happened in the past month.

* * *

By the time he manages to get Triss alone, they’re both clad in their nightclothes and lounging atop his bed, finally free of the chaos that is the rest of their family.

“Sir Geralt proposed?” Triss says in wonder, crawling under the covers. Spring has fully set in, now, but the nights are still a bit chilly. “I can scarce believe it.” She trails her hand across the hemline, a small smile appearing on her face. “Though I suppose I am not wholly surprised. And it’s not that anyone’s admiring you should be astonishing.”

Jaskier grins ruefully, picking at a thread with nothing else to occupy his fingers.

“But he always seemed so severe,” Triss continues, reaching out to grab the brush from the bedside table. “So cold, apparently. He was gentler with you, true, and I felt there was some attraction there, but still. And yet he was in love with you all this time.” She presses the brush into his hands and turns, presenting her hair to him. “Poor Sir Geralt.”

“I confess, I cannot feel so much compassion for him,” Jaskier says, reaching her hair, grateful to have something to do with his hands as he unravels her updo. He’ll revisit what his sister means when she says that she wasn’t fully surprised as soon as he’s finished telling her the basics. “He has other feelings, which will soon drive away any regard he felt for me. You do not blame me for refusing him?”

“ _Blame_ you?” Triss repeats, looking over her shoulder with a soft expression. “Oh, no, Jask, I couldn’t.”

Jaskier smiles a little, turning her head back straight so he can avoid looking her in the eyes. “But you _do_ blame me for speaking so warmly of Voorhis?”

“No,” Triss says after a slight pause. “No, I don’t. How could you have known about his vicious character? If, that is, he was so very bad. But I cannot believe Sir Geralt would fabricate such a dreadful slander, involving his own ward, too. No, it must be true.” Jaskier can’t see her face, but he can just imagine the way she’s carefully biting her lower lip as she always does when she’s pondering something. “Perhaps there has been some terrible mistake.”

He can’t help it, he laughs, fingers pausing in their ministrations. “No, Triss, that won’t do,” he chuckles. He loves his sister and her endearing way of trying to see the good in everyone, however unlikely it is. “You’ll never be able to make them _both_ good,” he tells her, brushing through her hair again. “There is just enough merit between them to make _one_ good sort of man. And, for my part,” he angles his head, shaking it a bit at his admission, “I am inclined to believe it’s all Sir Geralt’s.”

Triss glances over her shoulder again at that, but he can’t decipher the look in time before she faces front again. “Poor Sir Geralt, poor Mr. Voorhis,” she sighs. “There is such an expression of goodness in his countenance.”

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees, thinking back to the realisation he’d made days previous of the opposites he’d discovered. “I’m afraid one has all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.”

“But, Jaskier,” Triss tries, batting his hands away and turning around fully. “I’m sure when you first read that letter, you could not have made so light of it as you do now.”

Jaskier looks down at the brush in his hands, turning it over and running a fingertip down its back. “Indeed, I did not,” he confesses softly, not daring to look up. “I was very uncomfortable. Until that moment, I had no idea of myself or of the world, I suppose. And I had no Triss around to comfort me.” He raises his head and shoots his sister a slightly forced smile. “Oh, how I wanted you there.”

Triss smiles back, leaning forward to wrap her arms around him. He closes his eyes, letting himself just bask in the affection for a moment until she goes to pull away, a small pressure against his forehead telling him that she’s kissed just below his hairline.

“There _is_ one point on which I want your advice,” he says loudly, to cover up any rawness left in his voice from something so simple as a hug. “Should our general acquaintance be informed of Voorhis’ character? I did not know, otherwise there would already be a ditty circulating the inns and taverns.”

Triss laughs a little. “I’m sure there would,” she says, biting at her lip as she thinks. “But surely there can be no occasion to expose him so cruelly. What is your own opinion?”

“As much as I’d like to, I think it ought not to be attempted,” Jaskier sighs. He’d thought long and hard about it on the journey home, a feat he’s surprised he managed what with Ellen talking _his_ ear off, which made a change. “Sir Geralt has not authorized me to make it public. Especially as regards his ward. And, for the rest, who would believe it? The general prejudice against Sir Geralt is so violent, and Voorhis will soon be gone. I believe we should say nothing about it at present.”

“Yes, I agree.” His sister nods sharply. “Perhaps he is sorry now for what he has done, and is anxious to re-establish his character in the world. We must not make him desperate.”

Jaskier smiles again, and it feels like he’s done it more this evening than the past four weeks put together. “Oh, Triss, I wish I could think so well of people as you do,” he tells her, grinning, as she rolls her eyes at him. “But, wait – before you go. You said you were not wholly surprised at Sir Geralt making me an offer.” He fixes her with a frown. “What did you mean?”

“Really, Jaskier, I knew sometimes you could be oblivious, but even you can’t possibly be _that_ unobservant,” Triss admonishes, and Jaskier feels mildly offended at her words. His sister seems to pick up on it, thankfully, and her eyes widen as she scrambles upright. “Wait, you _really_ didn’t know?”

“I _really_ didn’t,” he parrots back at her, crossing his arms with a tinge of annoyance. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked, would I?”

Triss bobs her head and swallows. “Alright, yes, good point,” she concedes. “Sorry, I just… I thought it was obvious.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes at her. “ _What_ was obvious?”

“The way he looked at you,” Triss says quickly, raising her hands placatingly. “He was always looking. Maybe it was a little weird, but I’m not sure he knows how else to display any sort of emotion.” She pauses, and Jaskier blinks in light of that revelation, which is… more realistic than he had thought. “And he always singled you out,” his sister continues. “He didn’t avoid you like he did the rest – _hell_ , he even singled you out at the ball at Vengerburg!”

“Language,” Jaskier quips weakly, but it’s about all he can do with how much his head is spinning.

Triss sighs, placing a hand on his knee. “He liked you, Jask,” she says softly, squeezing slightly in comfort. “He may have gone about it all wrong, but he did like you. It was obvious in the way he looked at you, all soft and caring. It was quite something to watch, and –“ 

“Wait, wait,” Jaskier interrupts, a thought coming to him, reigniting an irritation he’s had for months. “He didn’t like me at _all_ , he was always insulting me! Don’t you remember what he said that first night at the assembly rooms?”

“’Not handsome enough to tempt me’, I know, you ranted about that for _weeks_.” Triss rolls her eyes. “But don’t you think that could have been him trying to get his friend to stop pestering him? Or even lying to himself about his own feelings?”

That’s… even _more_ plausible, actually. It’s a tactic Jaskier himself regularly employs, with varying success.

“All I’m saying,” Triss begins, spreading her hands out in front of her. “Is that maybe Sir Geralt really did like you all this time, and you just didn’t manage to pick up on it.” She sighs, dropping her arms back to her sides. “I’m not forgiving his behaviour – he was rude to you, but I think he _did_ care, and he was genuinely proposing. He went about it in the wrong way, of course.”

“He wrote it down,” Jaskier mumbles.

Triss leans forward, brow furrowed. “What?”

“He wrote it down,” he repeats, rubbing his hands together awkwardly. “He had this piece of paper with him, and he kept looking at it like he was trying to read what it said, but it was all wet and the ink had smudged. I think… I think he had written down what he intended to say.”

“That’s…” Triss trails off, blinking and shaking her head a little. “That’s sweet. Unexpected, yes, but sweet.”

Jaskier blushes. “I thought so too.”

“Oh!” comes the exclaim a second later, and he ducks his head again even though he knows it’s too late, she’s seen. “You thought it was sweet! You _liked_ it!”

“The _action_ , not the man himself,” Jaskier grumbles, batting her hands away from where they’re grabbing at him playfully. “It’s not the same thing.”

“Of course not.” Triss pats his hand patronisingly.

“It’s not.”

_Isn’t it?_

* * *

Ciri, at least, is happy to see them returned so quickly.

Yennefer huffs and complains and makes a big deal out of it, but secretly Geralt can tell that she’s pleased they’re back too, even if she’ll never admit it. Geralt is glad that he’s back, glad to see them again, although right now he’s not so sure anymore, dragged into his study with the three of them staring at him accusingly. Eskel is the ringleader, the _traitor_ , but he just looks more and more amused as the minutes go by in silence, Ciri and Yennefer staring at him reproachfully once he’s done explaining what happened.

“Well, at least you scared the shit out of that one man,” Yennefer sighs at last, and Geralt is really going to have to have a talk with her about what kinds of language _are_ and _are not_ appropriate in front of Ciri. “As to the rest, all I can say is that you’ve really put your foot in it.”

“I know that,” he mumbles, properly chastised. “But it’s not like I’m going to see him again.”

Yennefer chuckles dangerously. “Oh, yes, you are,” she says lowly. “If not least so I can witness the epic insults that man is sure to throw at you. He’s got a clever mind and a quick tongue.”

“You’ve said that before,” Geralt groans, rubbing his forehead. “And no, I’m not. Things are irreversibly beyond repair, now.”

“Maybe he won’t be friends with the bad man anymore,” Ciri offers, eyes bright and wide. “You wrote him a letter and you explained, so maybe he won’t talk to him ever again!”

They’ve not named Voorhis in their conversation, just mentioned that Julian was friends with a man that all three of the adults despise, and that seems to be enough for her to agree. Yennefer picks up on what he’s not saying, mouthing the man’s name in question over Ciri’s head, eyes hardening when Geralt confirms it with a small nod.

“Maybe,” he sighs, mostly for her benefit. He’s not entirely sure what Julian will do with the information now that he has it. Denounce the man publicly? Ridicule him in front of his peers? It certainly seems his usual style, but somehow, he can’t see the man spilling all his secrets. He may be young, and naïve, but he’s not foolish, nor is he likely willing to break Geralt’s trust, though that’s purely speculation.

There’s the other matter of Triss Pankratz still weighing heavily on his conscience. Sabrina and Istredd have gone back to Aretuza with Madam Tissaia for the season, and he’ll most likely not see them again until the summer, but even then, only while Yennefer is around. He still can’t quite meet her eyes, but like he’d told Eskel: he’s waiting to talk to her until he finds out what _exactly_ happened.

“I’d like to meet him,” Ciri announces, startling the adults out of their contemplative silence. Her expression is pleading – and although she’s older then when it was _truly_ effective, it still tends to work. “Please? I’ve heard so much about him!”

She has, and Geralt has Yennefer and Eskel to thank for that. She’d even taken to asking to learn how to play the pianoforte and lute when she found out that Julian could play both.

“Of course you will, cub,” Eskel smiles at her. “I think he’d like you very much.”

Ciri nods decisively. “That’s settled,” she says, every bit the regal young woman she’s meant to be. “Oh, Geralt! You could invite him to join us at Kaer Morhen this summer!”

Geralt gives her a weak smile. He finds he can’t say no to anything she asks, but in this case, it’s out of his hands. He’s not entirely sure how to explain to her that even with all her youthful optimism, Julian Pankratz will likely never want to speak to him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter after this and then the boys are together again! And uh-oh, Voorhis shows up again in the next one...


	17. Chapter 17

“Won’t you speak to Father, Jask, about our going to Novigrad?” Priscilla pleads, sending her brother sad eyes from across the table. “You know he listens to your advice! Or Triss, please?”

Jaskier grins, exchanging a look with Triss. It’s June, now, and the militia are to leave in the next two weeks – an event that he’s not too upset about. “You flatter me, Priscilla,” he says, taking a sip of his tea. “But, in any case, I shouldn’t attempt to persuade him. I think it’s a very _good_ thing that the regiment should be removed from Lettenhove, and that we should be removed from the regiment.”

“Oh, Julian, how can you say such a thing?” his mother despairs, throwing her napkin onto the table with a huff. “My dear Triss, surely you must see sense.”

“Indeed, I do, ma’am,” Triss says, nodding graciously – but there’s a small smirk on her face. “And my good sense tells me my brother and father are right in their inclinations towards this issue.”

Mrs. Pankratz wails. “But _how_ can you say that?”

“Very easily, Mother,” Jaskier laughs, ignoring the look of utter betrayal his younger sisters shoot him. “If one poor company of militia can cause such havoc in our family, what would a whole camp full of soldiers do?”

Priscilla sighs dreamily, resting her elbows on the table. “A whole camp full of soldiers…” she repeats, staring off into the distance with a sense of whimsicality about her.

“I remember when I was a girl. I cried for two days together when Colonel Auckes’ regiment went away,” their mother decides to contribute, which doesn’t add much to the conversation, but does manage to pull Priscilla out of her daydreaming. “I thought I should have broken my heart!”

“Well, I’m sure I shall break mine,” Priscilla huffs.

Her sister copies her, leaning forward over the table. “And I!”

“There, there, my dears,” Mrs. Pankratz soothes, and Jaskier catches Triss rolling her eyes at the vexed tone in her voice. “But your father is determined to be cruel.”

“I confess, I am,” the man concedes, setting down his fork and knife atop his plate. “I’m sorry to be breaking so many hearts, but I’ve not the smallest intention of yielding.”

_Good_ , Jaskier thinks. Now that he knows of Mr. Voorhis’ true nature, he’s not sure he’ll be able to trust any of the rest of the militia. And he certainly does not trust any of his sisters around them, not least for their own safety and security. While it’s true that none of them have any fortune to their name, he knows all too well the way of soldiers deprived of company.

“Francesca says she plans to go sea-bathing!” Shani pipes up, and Jaskier glances over. He’s not actually been to Novigrad, or the coast, but he dearly wants to – and he can understand his sisters’ eagerness a little more now.

“I’m sure I would _love_ to go sea-bathing,” Priscilla whines, and he’s reminded that it’s not often she doesn’t get her way. This will be a new experience for her, to be sure. He watches as she leans desperately towards their father, trying to get his attention while he resolutely ignores her.

Mrs. Pankratz sips from her own tea, staring nastily at her husband. “A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”

Much to Triss and Jaskier’s amusement, their father simply wipes his mouth with his napkin, as calm and collected as ever. “And yet, I am unmoved,” he pronounces, standing up and laying a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re come back, Julian. With the militia leaving and you and Triss returned, perhaps we’ll finally have some peace around here.”

“Unlikely,” Triss laughs, elbowing Jaskier as he grins up at his father, who merely shakes his head and steps out from his place.

“I want to go to Novigrad!” Priscilla shouts, letting out a whine as she stamps her foot.

Mr. Pankratz regards her for a second, gaze flickering from bemused to almost disappointed. “Well, never mind,” he says after a moment, making to head towards the door. “I daresay, in a year or two, you’ll have gotten over it tolerably well.”

Priscilla throws down her knife and fork, flinging her napkin to the far side of the room as she pouts. Jaskier sighs at her dramatics – though really, he should be proud, he’s the one who taught her that, after all – and nods to Triss, who smiles back in relief, standing to join him in following their father’s example and escaping the company of their mother and sisters.

* * *

There’s a party being held that evening, the day before the militia depart for Novigrad. Jaskier decides that if he is going to have to face Mr. Voorhis and be pleasant about it, he may as well spend the rest of the day doing something enjoyable, in an effort to clear his mind from whatever subtle jabs he’s sure to come up with for when he inevitably has to speak to the man.

He makes his way outside into the garden – they’re a little over halfway through June, now, and the weather is reflecting it – heading straight towards the herb garden where he can see Triss tending her plants and taking clippings for her wares.

“You’re not happy,” he remarks, after watching her work steadily for a few minutes without the contented expression she normally wears when with her herbs. “It pains me to see it.”

Triss sighs, pausing in her work to sit back on her heels and look up, shading her eyes with one hand. “It is just that I…” she swallows, looking away again. “I’m afraid I still do prefer Lady Yennefer to any other person I’ve ever met,” she admits softly, shaking her head. “And, Jask… I did believe that she… well, I was mistaken. That is all. I’m resolved to think of her no more.” She looks up again, a smile on her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “ _There_ , enough. I shall be myself again, as if I had never set eyes on her.”

She stands, brushing off her skirts, and with an uncomfortable pain in his chest at her efforts to get over things, Jaskier finds himself – not for the first time – wondering if he should come clean and report to his sister what he’d found out, how it wasn’t Lady Yennefer doing this, but the fault of her friends. It’s the main thing that he’s still having trouble forgiving Sir Geralt for. He’d wanted to tell her, initially, but had decided it may only cause even more pain.

“Truly, Jaskier, I promise I shall be well,” Triss says, coming up to him and squeezing his hand in assurance. “I shall be myself again, and shall be perfectly content.”

She smiles again, the same sad one, dropping his hand and heading back up to the house, nodding to their mother as they pass. Jaskier watches her go, swallowing down the lump that had seemed to appear in his throat.

“Well, Julian, what do you think now about this sad business of Triss’?” his mother asks, bustling up in her approach with her own basket and clippers in hand, ready to collect some flowers for their table. “I cannot find out that she saw _anything_ of Yennefer in Vizima. Well, she’s a very undeserving young woman. And I don’t suppose there’s the least chance of her getting her now.” She sighs, waving her clippers in the air. “If only she should come back to Vengerburg, though…”

Jaskier chuckles softly. “I think there’s little chance of that, Mother,” he tells her, recollecting Sir Geralt’s words on the short visit he had made the day prior to the proposal. He sits down on the grass, leaning back on his elbows and watching the clouds in the sky as he thinks.

“Oh, well, just as she chooses, no one wants her to come, anyhow,” Mrs. Pankratz says petulantly, attacking the stems with a little more aggression than necessary. “Oh, I shall always say she used my daughter _extremely_ ill. And, if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is Triss will die of a broken heart, and then she’ll be sorry for what she’s done.” Jaskier glares at her, but it doesn’t have the desired effect without her facing him to see it. “So, Mr. Ferrant and his wife live quite comfortably, do they?” she moves on, though it’s not to a topic that’s much better. “Well, I only hope it will last. And I suppose they talk about having this house, too when your father is dead. They look on it as quite their own, I daresay.”

Jaskier can’t help but grin at the thought. “They could hardly discuss such a subject in front of me, Mother.” Ferrant, maybe – but he knows Essi would never.

“Well, I make no doubt they talk of it constantly when they’re alone,” his mother huffs. “If they can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. I should be ashamed of having one that was only entailed upon me.”

“Mother!” comes Priscilla’s voice, and both the woman and her son look up to see Priscilla and Shani run out of the house and towards them. “Mother! Jaskier! Guess what? You never will, so I’ll tell you!” She has a letter clutched in her hands and she’s waving wildly even after she comes to a halt beside them. “Francesca has invited me as her particular friend to go with her to Novigrad!”

“Oh!” Mrs. Pankratz exclaims, dropping her basket and clippers to clap her hands together excitedly. Jaskier pushes himself up to stand, horror rising in his chest.

Priscilla is practically vibrating in her excitement. “General Vilgefortz is to take a house for us!”

Jaskier blinks, even as his mother lurches forward to clutch her youngest daughter’s hands. “Oh, Priscilla, I am so happy! And what an honour to be so singled out!”

“Is it not unfair, Jaskier?” Shani whines, and his gaze snaps to her, marking the tear tracks on her cheeks. “Francesca should have asked me as well as Priscilla. I may not be her particular friend, but I’ve just as much right to be asked as she has!” She glares at her sister, who sticks her tongue out tauntingly. “And _more_ , too, for I’m two years older!”

Jaskier sighs, reaching to place a hand on her shoulder, but she turns and hurries back to the house before he can. 

“Well, I shan’t buy _her_ a present, I daresay,” Priscilla giggles. “There’s no call for her to be in a miff, because Francesca likes me above anyone.”

Closing his eyes at his youngest sister’s smug tone, Jaskier takes a deep breath to collect himself before he turns to face her. “Priscilla, before you crow too loud over your sister,” he starts, though she appears not to be taking his words too seriously. “Remember that Father has not given you permission to go, and nor is he likely to.”

“But Father won’t stop me going!” Priscilla laughs, and Jaskier clenches his jaw to stop from snapping at her. “Not when I’ve been specially invited by the general of the regiment to be his wife’s _particular_ companion!” His mother and sister burst out into giggles again. “Oh, Mother, I shall have to be bought new clothes, for I’ve nothing fit to wear, and there will be balls and parties every night!”

“Well, of course you shall have new things!” Mrs. Pankratz agrees, forgetting altogether about her belongings lying on the ground in favour of taking her daughter’s hand to head back towards the house. “We wouldn’t see you disgraced in front of all the officers!”

“All the officers!” Priscilla squeals, her shriek of laughter thankfully fading in volume as they get closer to the house.

Jaskier groans, dropping back onto the grass to lie on his back, staring up at the sky with unseeing eyes as he reflects on the whole discussion. Mr. Voorhis will be amongst the officers going to Novigrad, and although Jaskier has nothing against General Vilgefortz or his wife, he’s not sure he trusts either of them to keep Priscilla safe from the man, or, more accurately, herself.

He's not worried about the man being after her dowry, he surely knows she has none to give, but her reputation and the family’s honour are at stake. Unwillingly, the voice of Sir Geralt flicker through his mind, those words admonishing his family’s behaviour the night of the Vengerburg ball, which, to be honest, were relatively accurate. 

Still, he supposes, the least he can do is appeal to his father’s good sense.

Pushing himself up off of the grass and collecting his mother’s discarded things, he makes his way back to the house. It’s quiet, though he can hear a faint giggle from upstairs, which must mean that – unfortunately – in the time he’s been alone outside his father must have already granted his permission.

“Look, I understand your concern, my dear boy,” Mr. Pankratz says once Jaskier has expressed his feelings about the matter. “But consider: Priscilla will never be easy until she has embarrassed herself in some public place, and here is an opportunity for her to do so, at very little expense or inconvenience to her family.”

Jaskier scowls, pacing across the floor of his study. “If you were aware, Father,” he starts, intending to make his point clear. “Of the very great disadvantage to us all, which must arise from Priscilla’s unguarded and imprudent manner, which has _already_ arisen from it, I’m sure you would judge differently.”

“Already arisen?” his father repeats, frowning. “What, has she frightened away some of your lovers?” He stands making his way over to stop his son’s movements, placing his hands on his shoulders. “Now, don’t be cast down, Julian, such squeamish youths are not worth your regret. Oh, come now, my boy.”

“Indeed, you are mistaken,” Jaskier says, and he can hear himself that his voice is trembling. “I have no injuries to resent. I speak of general, not particular, evils. Our…position as a family, our very respectability is called into question by Priscilla’s wild behaviour.”

Mr. Pankratz regards him for a moment. “I don’t think I’ve ever known you to be this upset by a risk to our respectability.”

Jaskier huffs, flicking his hair out of his eyes as best he can while still avoiding his father’s gaze. “Excuse me, I must speak plainly. If you do not take the trouble to check her, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be fixed as the most determined flirt that ever made herself and her family ridiculous.” He looks up, then, staring resolutely at his father. If he can’t divulge the secrets he knows about Mr. Voorhis, he can at least say as plainly as he can how much he worries about the trip.

“I had thought you encouraged some of her wild behaviour,” Mr. Pankratz says dubiously, and Jaskier can hear in his voice that he thinks he’s overreacting.

“You know that Shani follows wherever Priscilla leads,” he tries, wrenching himself away from his father’s grasp and resuming his pacing. “Don’t you see that they will be censured and despised wherever they are known? And that they will involve their siblings in their own disgrace?”

Mr. Pankratz looks at him again, before sighing. “Julian... _Jaskier_ , come here,” he says, reaching out to take his son’s hand and patting the back of it. Jaskier determinedly looks away. “Don’t make yourself uneasy, my boy. Wherever you and Triss are known you must be respected and valued.”

Jaskier scoffs, looking away as the creeping realisation washes over him that this is an argument he’s not going to win.

“And you will not appear to any less advantage for having one, or, I may say, two very silly sisters,” Mr. Pankratz continues. “We shall have no peace in Lettenhove if Priscilla does not go to Novigrad.” He sighs. “General Vilgefortz is a sensible man, and luckily, she’s too poor to be an object of prey to a fortune hunter.”

He wants to respond, withdrawing his hand from the grasp, but his father raises a palm before he can do it.

“Now, leave it, Julian,” he says, moving to sit back down at his desk. “I believe all will turn out well.”

Jaskier looks away, hoping that his father is right.

* * *

There’s a cluster of people around the chair that his mother is sitting in, Mr. Voorhis amongst them, and Jaskier has been watching him like a hawk all evening. Earlier, Triss had noticed and berated him for being so obvious, but he can’t really stop himself from glaring daggers into the man’s back from where he sits a few yards away.

He watches as they talk and laugh together, a few minutes passing before Voorhis bows to the group and turns around. Jaskier schools his face into a welcoming smile as the man approaches, though inwardly he’d rather be frowning.

“There’s one gentleman I shall be very loath to part from,” Mr. Voorhis says by way of greeting, as smooth as ever, though where it once made Jaskier smile now all it does is sit uncomfortably.

“Well, we must bear it as best we can,” he quips, trying not to grimace when the man sits down next to him. “You are for Novigrad; and I shall be touring the mountains with my aunt and uncle. I daresay, we shall find ample sources of consolation and delight… in our different ways.”

“Perhaps.” Mr. Voorhis smiles, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve not seen you for over a month, now. Have you been avoiding me?”

Jaskier shifts, trying to think of a suitable response, because yes – that’s _exactly_ what he’d been doing. Even avoiding his local haunt at the tavern in town to do so, much to the disappointment of the patrons looking for free music. “No, not at all,” he assures the man as quickly as he can. “Merely catching up on all the things I missed whilst I was away.”

“Ah, of course.” Mr. Voorhis’ smile turns rueful. “How did you like Tretogor?”

“Very interesting,” Jaskier responds, trying not to laugh as he remembers the strange company and manners he found there. One of the people gives him an idea. “Oh, General Eskel was there with Sir Geralt,” he says innocently, feeling a flash of triumph when he sees his company wince slightly at the name. “Are you at all acquainted with the general?”

“I, well…” Mr. Voorhis hesitates a second. “To some respects, yes, in former years. A very gentlemanly man. How… how did you like him?”

Scoping him out, Jaskier realises, now able to compare it to when he’d first discussed Sir Geralt with the man. Parsing out his opinions before he gives his own. Clever, though he hates to admit it. “I liked him _very_ much, indeed,” Jaskier says, wickedly delighting when he remembers that Eskel had dealings with Voorhis as well as Geralt, and that him expressing his partiality may irk the man.

Mr. Voorhis shakes whatever surprise he must have felt off quickly, offering an amiable smile in return. “His manners are much different from his cousin’s.”

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees, narrowing his eyes and preparing the part of the conversation that he feels may turn the tide in his favour. “But I think Sir Geralt improves on... _closer_ acquaintance.”

“Indeed?” The man blinks, hastily covering up his frown. “In what respect? Has he acquired a touch of civility in his address? For I dare not hope he has improved in essentials.”

Jaskier finds himself bristling at the comment, though he’s not sure why. Telling Mr. Voorhis that he likes the man is a different thing to _actually_ liking him. “No,” he replies coolly. “In essentials, I believe he is very much as he ever was.”

Mr. Voorhis leans back, face valiantly trying to recover its easygoing expression. “Ah.”

“I don’t mean to imply that either his mind or his manners are changed for the better,” Jaskier continues, watching as the man across from him perks up slightly, at which he smirks as he deals his final blow. “Rather, my knowing him better improved my opinion of him.”

The man’s face falls. “I see.”

_Yes, you do_ , Jaskier thinks, glancing over as Francesca calls for Mr. Voorhis to join her.

“At your service, ma’am,” he responds, giving Jaskier a short bow as he hurries away faster than necessary.

“Yes, go, go,” Jaskier says to himself, reaching for his glass of wine and smiling smugly at the man’s retreating form. “I would not wish you back again.” He takes a sip of his drink, sending Triss a wink when she looks over.

* * *

July finally rolls around and with it comes his aunt and uncle, depositing their children to Triss’ care in Lettenhove before sweeping Jaskier away, not that it took much – if any – convincing for them to do so. Even with Priscilla away in Novigrad he’s not been able to settle, despite Triss and him back together for a long period of time. Likely it comes from the fact that Shani has taken it upon herself to be as miserable as possible, and made it her mission in life to ensure that everyone else matched her mood. It had gotten to the point when even Triss had snapped and shouted at her.

Pulling his mind back to the present he leans forward to look out, taking in the scenery as they progress. Outside the carriage windows he can just make out the mountains in the distance, the peaks snow-capped and shrouded by clouds.

“Nature and culture in harmony, you see, Jaskier,” his aunt Myrgta says, smiling out at the view as well. “Wildness and artifice, and all in the one perfect county.”

“Well, I was born and grew up here, so I should never disagree with that,” his uncle laughs, gazing wistfully outside.

Jaskier looks at him curiously. “Where, exactly?”

Borch smiles. “At Hertch,” comes the reply. “A little town of no consequence to anyone, except those fortunate enough to have lived in it. I think it the dearest place in the world.”

“Then I shall not be happy till I have seen it,” Jaskier decides, grinning at his uncle.

“It has one further claim on your interest,” Borch adds, and his nephew glances back over. “It is but five miles from Kaer Morhen, and owes much of its prosperity to that great estate.”

Jaskier’s smile slips, and he quickly plasters a fake one on. “So near?” Hopefully he’s able to disguise the concern in his voice, at least.

Borch nods. “Not that I, or any of my acquaintance, enjoyed the privilege of intimacy with that family. We moved in very different circles.”

No, he supposes, they wouldn’t – different circles, indeed. He has to wonder, though, as the carriage continues, if all that would have changed if only he’d said _yes_.

* * *

Normally, sparring would be enough to distract him, but it’s been two and a half months since the failed proposal and still he can’t get Julian Pankratz out of his head, harsh words rolling over him and cornflower blue eyes permeating his dreams. Sparring is good for getting his aggression out, his pent-up emotion – indeed, he seems to be fighting harder than usual – but it’s never enough to fully take everything away.

“A hit,” Lambert acknowledges, scowling as he lowers his blade. “For fuck’s sake, had enough yet?”

“Enough,” Geralt decides, letting his arm drop and wiping the back of his hand across his brow to get rid of the drops of sweat. “Thanks.”

Lambert barks out a laugh. “For what? Letting you crush me?” He shakes his head, clapping a hand down on Geralt’s shoulder as they move to put away their weapons. “You coming back tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow,” Geralt says quickly, sheathing his sword and itching to get away, to take on the next activity to try and clear his mind. “I’ve got business back north, I’ll come back in a few weeks.”

“Aye.” Lambert eyes him carefully. “You sure you’re alright?”

Geralt grunts, jerking his head in what he hopes is confirmation as he stalks towards the exit, pausing about halfway down the stairs and gripping his sheath hard. “I will conquer this,” he tells himself, even though the promise sounds hollow to his own ears. “I _will_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone... next chapter... we get the _lake scene_...


	18. Chapter 18

They reach Hertch on their fifth day in the peak district, settling down at the Bull Inn for the night. The next morning they’re up bright and early to explore a little around the town and the surrounding woodlands, and Jaskier feels more tired that evening than he’s felt in a long time – collapsing onto his bed without bothering to turn down the covers. By the time he’s awake and eaten breakfast, his aunt and uncle are ready to head out again.

“I think I should be quite happy to stay my whole life in the Gwenllech valley,” Jaskier proclaims, bouncing on the soles of his feet as he pulls on his coat.

“I’m happy to hear it,” Borch laughs, standing in the doorway to watch for their carriage. “Now, what do you say to visiting Kaer Morhen this afternoon? It’s not directly in our way, but no more than a mile or two out of it.”

Jaskier swallows, fighting the urge to turn around and go back to his room. “Do you _especially_ wish to see it, Uncle?”

“I should have thought you would, having heard so much about it,” he replies, turning from the door to fix Jaskier with a discerning gaze. “And the associations are not all unpleasant. Voorhis passed all his youth there, you know.”

“We have no business there,” Jaskier tries to protest, refusing to let on to his irritation at hearing that name and remembering his own fallacy in taste. “I should feel awkward to visit the place without a proper introduction.”

His aunt raises an eyebrow. “No more than Gorthur Gvaed or Kaer Seren,” she points out, clever as always. “There was no awkwardness there.”

“I shouldn’t care for it myself, Jaskier, if it were merely a fine house, richly furnished,” Borch says softly, letting out a wistful sigh, turning to watch as their carriage pulls up outside. “But the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest sights in the Continent.”

“Let me ask the driver,” Myrgta suggests, stepping outside as the man alights. “Good sir, how far are we from Kaer Morhen?”

“It’s not more than five miles north, Madam,” he says, offering a hand to help her climb up and into her seat.

Borch smiles. “The grounds are very fine, are they not?”

“As fine as you’ll see anywhere, sir,” the driver responds faithfully, standing aside as the man climbs in. “My oldest sister is an undergardener there.”

Jaskier frowns, waiting his turn. “Is… is the family here for the summer?”

“No, sir,” the driver says, and Jaskier feels a weight lift off of his chest as he climbs in, taking a seat across from his aunt and uncle.

“Well, then,” he says, smiling as they settle down and the driver spurs the horses forward. “Perhaps we might visit Kaer Morhen after all.”

* * *

“I think we’ve seen woods and cliffs enough to satisfy even your enthusiasm for them, Jaskier,” Myrgta teases some time after lunch, the open carriage trundling along a road of packed earth and gravel as they travel ever closer towards Kaer Morhen.

“Enough for a dozen new songs,” Jaskier assures her, grinning as he glances down at the bridge the carriage rolls across.

“ _Only_ a dozen?” his uncle laughs. “My dear boy, it seems you’ve lost your touch.”

Jaskier grins. “Give it time.” Below them, the bridge falls behind, once again replaced by the crunch of gravel. He shouldn’t be surprised, really, this high in the mountains there’s sure to be a surplus of stone and rock to be had. “I confess, I had no idea Kaer Morhen was such a great estate,” he admits, taking in the base of the mountains they trundle past. “Shall we reach the house itself before dark, do you think?”

“Be patient, wait,” Borch tells him, pointing up and a little to the left. Jaskier turns in his seat, inhaling as the house itself comes into view above a steep incline, a slow river meandering its way in front of the cliff face and forming a pool at the edge. “There,” Borch continues, motioning for the driver to stop the coach so they can look their fill. “I think one would be willing to put up with a good deal to be master or mistress of Kaer Morhen.”

“The master or mistress of Kaer Morhen will have to put up with a good deal, from what I hear,” Myrgta responds, though Jaskier isn’t really listening. “They’re not likely to be anyone we know.”

There’s a hand on his arm, then, and Jaskier glances over his shoulder to see his uncle leaning forward with a small smile on his face. “How do you like the house?”

“Oh, very well,” Jaskier breathes, drawing his gaze back to the building. _House_ doesn’t quite fit, he thinks, taking in the great walls and tower. _Keep_ would be a more suitable term. _Castle_ , perhaps? “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place so happily situated. I like it very well, indeed.”

“Drive on,” Borch instructs, settling back into his seat with a wan smile as the coach starts moving again. “Pity, then, that its owner should be such a proud and disagreeable man.”

Jaskier chuckles, tearing his eyes away from the house that gives him so much more inspiration than a few trees and mountains. “Yes, a great pity.”

Myrgta grins slyly. “Perhaps the beauty of the house renders its owner a little less repulsive, Jask?”

“Yes, perhaps,” he laughs, golden eyes flashing through the forefront of his mind. “Perhaps a _very_ little.”

“Well,” Borch starts, his gaze as knowing as ever. “In that case, shall we apply to the housekeeper to see inside the place?”

Jaskier nods, smile morphing into what he’s sure is a rather embarrassing look of stunned awe as the carriage rolls through the gate, bringing them inside the keep itself and allowing him to take a good look at the imposing walls and impressive architecture as his aunt and uncle request a tour. He swallows, taking in the glazed windows and tower turret as he feasts his eyes, still not regretting his decision to turn down Sir Geralt’s offer of marriage but feeling a slight ache regardless. Somehow, amongst his other misgivings in perception when it came to the man, he hadn’t quite pictured him living in a place like this.

The surprise and wonder only grow as they actually step inside, vaulted ceilings and ornate tapestries framing the inside of every room, invoking a sense of might and majesty. Jaskier laughs a little to himself, thinking that even with his sense of adventure he’d be hard-pressed to ever tire of a place like this.

“This is the music room,” the housekeeper says from up ahead, and Jaskier snaps out of his daze to catch up to the others, the shock that he feels that Sir Geralt – of all people – has a _music room_ overtaking his desire to cast his eyes around every part of every room.

“Charming,” his uncle declares. “What a lovely room this is.”

Jaskier finds he can’t agree more, his wonder steadily growing as he looks around, taking in the multitude of instruments and comfortable couches that occupy the space, when a polished lute catches his eye. He walks towards it in a sort of trance, admiring the polish and the fine quality of the strings, his fingers itching to touch it and see if it sounds as good as it looks.

“Oh, that’s quite magnificent,” Myrgta breaths from beside him, though Jaskier can’t tear his gaze away. What is Sir Geralt doing with a _lute_?

“That has just come down,” the housekeeper informs them, coming over to see what they’re looking at. “I’m not sure what this one is for. Another just arrived with a pianoforte, both presents from my master for Miss Cirilla. I assume this one is for her too.”

“Your master is from home, we understand,” Borch says, and the housekeeper nods.

“Yes, but we expect him here tomorrow, sir.”

Jaskier wrenches his gaze away from the instrument, staring at the housekeeper in horror. 

“He’s coming with a large party of friends,” the man continues, a face that does nothing to alleviate the surprise Jaskier is feeling. “And Miss Cirilla as well. This portrait here was painted earlier this year for her thirteenth nameday.”

He looks to where the man is pointing, joining his uncle as his aunt meanders in a different direction. The girl in the painting is young, a halo of light blonde hair falling in waves around her shoulders, eyes bright and sparkling with mirth.

“Ah, lovely,” his uncle exclaims. “She is a very handsome young lady.”

“Oh, yes,” the housekeeper says warmly, and Jaskier can’t help but smile at the affection in her tone. “The handsomest young lady that was ever seen. They’re teaching her to be poised and elegant, but she’s still the little menace she always was. Bright and cheerful but with a penchant for mischief.” 

Jaskier’s smile turns a little pained, remembering what had almost happened to the girl.

“She loves this room,” the housekeeper continues. “The instruments are hers; she recently expressed a desire to learn them. And no one can say no to her! The room was made up for her use.” She points towards the far end. “There’s a fine prospect from that window down towards the lake.”

From here, Jaskier can see the glint of the water he’d caught sight of on their drive in, and finds himself compelled to look, drawn towards the view through the glass. Outside the air is clear and the water sparkles, the whole estate spread out and nestled amongst the mountains.

“And to think,” he sighs wistfully, gazing at the surroundings. “All of this I might have called my own.”

“Jaskier, come look at this picture!” comes his uncle’s voice and he turns, seeing that he’s wandered into the adjoining hall. “It reminds me very much of someone we know!”

“This one, sir?” the housekeeper asks, pointing down at one of the miniatures in the glass case his uncle is leaning over. “That young gentleman is the late Sir Vesemir’s ward, Mr. Voorhis.” Jaskier freezes in his tracks, a foot away from the case. “He’s gone into the army now, but he’s turned out very wild. Very wild indeed, I’m afraid.”

_Understatement_.

“And that’s my master,” the woman says, her voice proud as she points at a different miniature. “And very like him, too.”

Jaskier leans in to look, a soft feeling rising in him at the portrait that’s undoubtedly Sir Geralt, albeit with hair that’s darker and fewer lines on his face, a small smile portrayed on his lips. It’s sweet, and doesn’t totally fit the image of a young Geralt that he’d envisioned.

“It’s a handsome face, but I’ve never seen the original,” Borch remarks, straightening. “It is much like him, Jaskier?”

The housekeeper’s eyes light up. “Oh! Does this young gentleman know the master?”

“Yes, a little,” Jaskier admits, uncomfortable with the way the housekeeper looks at him happily.

“And he is a handsome gentleman, is he not, sir?”

He swallows, golden eyes and white hair flickering through his memories. “Yes, very handsome,” he manages to choke out, trying to avoid his aunt’s thrilled gaze.

“Oh, yes,” the housekeeper sighs. “I’m sure I know none so handsome, nor so good.”

Jaskier tries to keep his breathing steady, even as his uncle makes a noise of curiosity.

“Indeed, sir,” the woman confirms. “I’ve never had a cross word from him in my life. And I’ve known him since he was four years old! But then, I’ve always observed that they that are good-natured when they are children are good-natured when they grow up.”

“His father was an excellent man,” Borch adds, and Jaskier studiously looks away to avoid meeting his uncle’s eyes.

“He was, sir,” the housekeeper agrees. “And his son will be just like him; the best landlord, and the best master.” She pauses, smiling. “Ask any of his tenants or his servants. Some people call him proud, but I fancy that’s only because he doesn’t rattle away like other young men do.”

Jaskier can’t help the grin that slips onto his face at that.

“Now, if you will follow me, there’s a finer, larger portrait of him in the gallery upstairs,” the housekeeper continues, beckoning Myrgta onwards. “This way, ma’am, if you please.”

“This fine account of Geralt is not quite consistent with his behaviour to poor Voorhis,” his uncle whispers as they follow the women up the stairs.  
Jaskier grimaces. “Perhaps we might have been deceived there.”

Borch pauses outside the entrance to the gallery, fixing Jaskier with a knowing look that seems to say all sorts of things he can’t begin to decipher. “Perhaps,” he repeats, narrowing his eyes slightly. “And how likely is that?”

It’s Jaskier who breaks the eye contact, cheeks flushing as he remembers his total willingness to believe Mr. Voorhis just because he had something bad to say about a man who had been rude to Jaskier before. He’s been told that he’s not always a good judge of character, but having to actually confront that fact is something different to just hearing it.

“Here,” the housekeeper says from inside the room, followed by Myrgta’s awed gasp. Breathing in, Jaskier glances back to his uncle, who smiles encouragingly and leads him inside, right up to join the women. Steeling himself for what he’s about to see, Jaskier looks up.

And freezes.

_Again_.

Because there – as lifelike as any painting he’s ever seen – is the portrait of Sir Geralt, hair as white as he’s ever known it and eyes painted the colour of the sun, that seem to pin him in place just as the real ones do. The detail is incredible, and were he able to focus anywhere other than the man’s face, he’d be sure to be impressed. As it stands, all he can do is stare back, the pang in his chest startling him into the realisation that he’d quite like to see the man himself again.

_No_ , he scolds himself a second later. That would not go well for anyone.

* * *

Even in the cooler air of the mountains July is still stiflingly hot, the temperature causing sweat to trickle down Geralt’s back even just from being out in the sun as he spurs Roach onwards. Up ahead he can see the walls of Kaer Morhen rising to greet him, and in front of them the lake that looks so refreshing, especially now.

He hesitates a moment, of half a mind to go straight home, but another drop of sweat rolls down his brow and his mind is made up, steering his horse to take the path down to the water’s edge, sliding off her back with a single objective in mind.

It’s an easy enough task to undress by the reeds that line the lake, unlacing his boots and peeling off his coat to lay them atop Roach’s saddle, his cravat and vest following shortly after. Geralt reaches for his shirt, considering, only to come to the conclusion that the shirt is already sticking to him, the hassle of trying to put it back on after he’s gotten wet is too much to be bothered with, especially in this heat. Instead, he glances at the house one last time before turning and diving into the lake.

The water feels amazing against his body. It’s not _cold_ , exactly, but it’s not been long enough for the heat to make it warm – what with the river flowing in and out of it on either side. It’s refreshing, and Geralt decides that he’ll have to come swimming here more often. Perhaps when the rest of the group arrives tomorrow, he’ll be able to convince a few of them – Ciri, certainly, and Eskel, _maybe_ Yennefer and Tissaia will wade – but he chuckles to himself at the thought of Sabrina or Istredd even approaching the water to put a foot in. 

He frowns at the reminder even as the swimming helps to clear his mind. He hadn’t wanted to invite Sabrina and Istredd, not at all, but he doesn’t have any concrete evidence against them and Yennefer had grown up with them. If he’s lucky, Ciri and Eskel will have thought of dozens of ways to torment them during their stay – Eskel to spite them since he knows what they did, and Ciri just because she _can_.

At a guess, he spends maybe fifteen minutes in the lake, lazily swimming to cool off while he ponders all of the ways his guests will wreak havoc on his house. It’s Ciri’s too, technically, but that only seems to encourage her when it comes to causing chaos.

He’s forced to get out of the water relatively soon, a groom having caught sight of him and advancing to take hold of Roach’s reins as Geralt clambers out of the lake with less grace than he’d like to admit. His shirt and breeches cling to him like a second skin, and he can feel the groom’s gaze lingering on his back as he pulls on his boots, wincing at the feel of the water running down his legs and into the leather. He has other pairs, he reminds himself, in the event that these come out ruined.

“Would you like to ride her, sir?” the groom asks as they make their way towards the house, Roach with only her saddle and tack now that Geralt has the rest of his clothes slung over his arm.

“No, no,” he answers after a moment. Roach would never forgive him if he rode her sopping wet without cause, and they’re just nearing the outermost garden anyways. “No, take her back to the stables,” he orders, and the groom nods and turns away, leading Roach down the field as he himself heads towards the copse of trees that separate him from the path that leads to his quiet, safe home.

* * *

Jaskier doesn’t like a lot of things about the protocol he generally has to put up with while in polite society, but wearing full coverings during the hottest month of the year is exceedingly high on the list. At least he’d had the presence of mind to not wear black, the robin’s egg blue of his coat light enough that it doesn’t soak up the heat the way other colours do. Behind him his aunt and uncle wander around the gardens themselves – his uncle, sensibly, is in red – but his aunt must be boiling in her dark green ensemble.

Neither of them seems to be aware of the turmoil inside Jaskier’s mind. He’s doing all he can not to think about whose house they’re at, whose gardens they’re standing in, and instead refocuses all of his nerves and agitation to silently bemoaning propriety’s sense of dress. If it were up to him, he’d only be in his shirt and breeches by now, the same way that Sir Geralt is as he emerges from a grove of trees up ahead.

Oh.

Oh _gods_.

_Sir Geralt_.

The man hasn’t seen him yet, which is a small mercy, and even though Jaskier knows there’s no way the man won’t notice he freezes in place, hoping against all odds that his presence will be ignored.

It isn’t, though, and Jaskier can pinpoint the exact moment the man realises he’s there: eyes flickering over him once before he stops completely, gaze locking on his with the most amount of shock Jaskier has ever seen reflected on a person, and that includes _himself_ at this very moment.

“Sir Geralt,” he manages to gasp out, face heating up now that his initial shock and surprise is making way for a large amount of horror.

“Master Julian,” Sir Geralt breathes out, eyes wide and the shock still lingering on his face. 

It’s intense, and Jaskier has to force his gaze away – only to realise that he absolutely _should not have done that_. The man’s chest is covered only by a single white shirt, so soaked through that it can hardly be called a garment at all. He can see the planes of the man’s chest, the sculpted lines in his torso – dear _gods_ the man is in good shape – and even if he’s utterly mortified Jaskier is _just_ shameless enough that he wants to see that body without the impediments of a wet shirt.

“I…” the man starts to say, and Jaskier mentally berates himself as he drags his gaze back up to an appropriate level.

“I did not expect to see you, sir,” he blurts out, clasping his hands behind his back to try and disguise the way they’re shaking, only just managing to keep his eyes on Geralt’s face. “We understood all the family were from home, or we should never have presumed – “

“I, uh, I returned a day early,” Sir Geralt hastens to reassure him, looking just as uncomfortable with the situation. His words are followed by a short silence, neither of them really knowing how to fill it before Geralt clears his throat and looks up in determination. “Excuse me; your parents are in good health?”

Jaskier’s eyes flicker over to where he can see his aunt and uncle, standing far enough away that they’re unobtrusive. “Uh, yes,” he responds, his voice hoarser than it’s been in a long time. “They are very well, I thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Sir Geralt replies, shifting his stance, and _oh no_ – the way his shoulders move makes the shirt draw even tighter across the man’s chest. Jaskier swallows, clenching his jaw hard in the effort he makes not to look down, but he can’t stop himself from watching the man’s lips as they form his next words. “How long… how long have you been in this part of the country?”

“But two days, sir,” Jaskier says, and he can _feel_ how red his face is.

Sir Geralt shifts again. “And where are you staying?”

“At the inn at Hertch.” It’s a chore not to look again, it really is, especially presented with a sight like _that_.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Another awkward silence. “Hmm… well, I’m… I’ve just arrived myself.” Those golden eyes flicker between the house and Jaskier, the man’s signature hum filling the quiet. “And your parents are in good health? And all your sisters?”

Jaskier chuckles nervously, the repetition proving that the man is similarly shaken. “Yes, they are all in excellent health, sir.”

They descend into silence again, Jaskier desperately refraining from looking at where Geralt’s nipples peak the slowly drying material of his shirt, the way – _no, don’t look_ , he reminds himself as the man moves again, fidgeting with the coat strung over his arm as he casts his gaze around uncertainly.

“I… I assume you drove here,” he says eventually, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Uh, may I see you back to your coach?”

“No!” Jaskier exclaims before he can stop himself, looking at his feet as he schools his expression back to a more neutral one. “No, I’m very fond of walking.”

_Fond of walking_? That’s all he could come up with, _really_?

To his surprise, Sir Geralt actually smiles at the words. “Yes,” he says, voice soft. “Yes, I know.”

Jaskier looks back up, and he’s still flushed, he knows, but he can’t help but smile a little back even as the situation remains strange. “Goodbye, Sir Geralt,” he says quietly, and the man gives a short bow.

“Excuse me,” he says, all but running back towards the house.

Left behind, Jaskier stays in his spot as the hastened footsteps fade away, biting his lip and stand stock-still as a flood of mortification washes back over him, leaving him shell-shocked by the rush of emotion. He can just see his aunt and uncle approaching out of the corner of his eye, his aunt’s expression awed and confused and his uncle’s surprisingly knowing.

“The man himself, I presume,” Borch says, a small grin tugging at his lips that his wife easily picks up on.

“And just as handsome as in his portrait,” she adds, smirking. “Though, perhaps, a little less _formally_ attired.”

Jaskier gasps out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, throwing his arms up. “We must leave here at once,” he declares, briefly catching the concerned look his aunt and uncle share before he’s turning on his heel and heading back towards the house, hoping that their coach will be brought up quickly.

“Why, of course, if you wish,” Myrgta says, wisely agreeing before he takes off without them.

“Oh, I wish we’d never come,” Jaskier despairs, still walking full-speed to the gatehouse, wanting to leave as soon as possible. “What must he think of me?”

“Was he displeased?” Borch asks, and Jaskier huffs out a breath. “What did he say?”

Wringing his hands, Jaskier stumbles over a rock but keeps walking, shoes crunching on the gravel as he steps off of the grass. “Nothing of consequence,” he responds with all the peace of mind he has left, confusion at his sudden need for Geralt’s approval adding to the rest of the jumble of thoughts in his head. He calls out for their coach, shifting and pacing a few steps back and forth on the drive as he waits the few minutes it takes for their carriage to pull up. Somewhere inside the courtyard a door slams shut and Jaskier swallows, making his way to the coach to try and get in before they’re caught.

“Master Julian!” comes Sir Geralt’s voice and he stops in his tracks, closing his eyes for a moment to compose himself before turning around, watching as the man approaches. It’s with a strange sense of disappointment that he realises he’s no longer in wet clothes, but suitably attired, even if his hair is still wet and slicked back. “Please allow me to apologise for not receiving you properly just now,” he says, eyes flickering to the carriage. “You are not leaving?”

Jaskier glances away. “We were, sir, I think we must.”

There’s a brief pause, then: “I hope you’re not displeased with Kaer Morhen.”

Blinking in surprise, Jaskier looks back at the man, who seems almost… _nervous_? “No,” he says, and it’s the truth – he can’t honestly say that he’s ever seen such a grand house. “No, not at all.”

Geralt smiles again, another small, precious thing, and it’s almost like the sun has come out. “Then… you approve of it?”

“Very much,” Jaskier confirms, smiling back despite himself. “I think there are few who would not approve.”

He receives a light chuckle at that. “But your good opinion is rarely bestowed, and, therefore, more worth the earning.”

It seems that words are not Jaskier’s friends today, their usual easy flow from his mouth seems to have been stopped somewhere in his mind, because all he can do is gape.

Geralt, bless him, doesn’t seem to mind, glancing over his shoulder at his aunt and uncle who are standing several paces away. “Would you do me the honour of introducing me to your friends?” he requests, turning to face them, and Jaskier forces himself to respond.

“Certainly,” he says as steadily as he can, stepping forward. “Mrs. Myrgta and Mr. Borch Three Jackdaws, this is Sir Geralt,” he introduces, watching as his uncle removes his hat in greeting. All of a sudden, his brain seems to switch back on, and he can’t stop what he says next. “Borch is my uncle, Sir Geralt. My sister Triss stayed at their house in Gracetemple Street when she was lately in Vizima.”

Geralt – and Jaskier is really starting to think that this _isn’t_ Geralt at all, but someone who shares his likeness but not his attitude – doesn’t react to the jab, bowing respectfully. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir, madam. You’re staying in Hertch, I hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Borch responds, and although his tone is cheerful, Jaskier can hear the amusement in it. “I grew up there as a boy.”

“It’s a good village,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier blinks. He’s _actually_ making small talk. “I remember running from Kaer Morhen to Hertch as a boy almost every day in the horse chestnut season. There was one very fine tree there, I remember.”

Borch’s smile widens. “On the green, by the blacksmith.”

“The very one,” Geralt replies, grinning back. “Do either of you care for fishing?”

“Indeed, I do, sir, when I get the chance of it,” Myrgta says delightedly, winking at Jaskier with no subtlety whatsoever. He feels his face light up again.

“If you have time, madam, you must come and fish in my trout stream.” _What_? “Or there are carp, zander, and pike in the lake here, if your bent runs to coarse fishing. I could provide you with rods and tackle, show you the best spots. Let us walk down now.” He turns to the carriage driver. “Follow us to the lake. My man will show you.”

Geralt takes off, Myrgta following behind him, the two of them discussing various fishing methods as Borch falls into place beside Jaskier, who’s unable to take his eyes off of Geralt, still suspecting that this is something of a dream.

“Is this the proud Geralt you told us of?” his uncle teases him gently, voice quiet enough that the man himself doesn’t overhear. “He is all ease and friendliness, no false dignity at all.”

“I’m as astonished as you are,” Jaskier whispers back, mind blank now that he’s been faced with this version of Sir Geralt, completely at a loss. “I can’t imagine what has affected this transformation.”

They stop, a few paces away, and Borch looks at him with eyes that seem older than he is, a sparkle twinkling in them even as he steps away. “Can you not?” He nods at Sir Geralt as they pass, the men switching places as Borch takes his wife’s arm and Geralt comes to stand next to Jaskier.

“Master Julian,” he greets again, then gestures down the path, waiting for Jaskier to join him as they head on together. “Uh, I – “

“I – “ 

They both cut themselves off, Jaskier embarrassed, especially when Sir Geralt turns those eyes on him again, fixing him with the full force of his gaze even as he smiles kindly. “Please, continue.”

Jaskier swallows, clasping his hands behind his back and determinedly looking straight ahead as they walk. “I was going to say again, sir, how very unexpected your arrival was,” he starts nervously. “If we had known you were to be here, we should not have _dreamt_ of invading your privacy. The housekeeper assured us you would not be here until tomorrow.”

“I beg you, do not make yourself uneasy,” Sir Geralt responds amicably as they make a turn around the edge of the lake, crossing over the bridge on the river. “I had planned it so myself; but I found I had business with my steward, and so rode on ahead of the rest of the party without informing anyone. They will join me tomorrow; and among them are those who claim an acquaintance with you. Yennefer and her… _friends_ , and Eskel as well.” 

Jaskier looks over at the name, only to find that Geralt is already watching him. He’s blushed so much today already, but he feels his cheeks heat up again as he snaps his gaze away, letting out a soft ‘oh’. He likes Eskel, he’ll be pleased to see him again, but he’s still a bit confused as to whether he should be mad at the Lady Yennefer or not for the situation regarding Triss.

Geralt hums, and when Jaskier carefully glances over he sees that the man has his hand near his neck, playing with the silver medallion that rests there. “There’s the other person in the party who, more particularly, wishes to know you,” he says hesitantly, fingers fiddling with the metal. “Will you allow me to… hmm. Do I ask too much to introduce my ward to you during your stay at Hertch?

A surprised smile spreads over Jaskier’s face. The elusive ward wants to meet him. “I should be very happy to make her acquaintance,” he says, and he means every word. He likes children, he always has, and he’s certainly very curious to see what Miss Cirilla is like. The reports he’s had – the _trustworthy_ ones, anyway – have all been very positive.

Geralt smiles again, looking as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “ _Thank you_ ,” he breathes out, and Jaskier’s insides do something very funny at the affection in his tone. They continue walking down the lane, the silence this time around comfortable as they approach the waiting coach.

Borch and Myrgta ascend first, offering their sincere gratitude to Sir Geralt who stands by, reaching out his hand even as Jaskier steps up after them, realising a second too late that he had meant to help him in.

“Thank you,” he says, a little guiltily as the man’s hand drops back to his side, an anxious half-smile still playing on his lips.

“I hope we shall meet again very soon,” he replies, adjusting the front of his jacket before clasping his hands behind his back. “Good day, Mrs. Myrgta, Mr. Borch.” He nods to each in turn, pausing as he looks to Jaskier, who feels pinned under his gaze, but not unpleasantly. “Good day, Master Julian.”

The coach rolls to a start and Jaskier opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out, instead staring back at Sir Geralt as he shrinks into the distance, holding his gaze until the bend in the road blocks him from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is _thirsty_


	19. Chapter 19

Playing in the inn that day at lunch is a pleasant undertaking, and Jaskier wonders if it has to do with the fact that he hadn’t been able to do it much this year at all, what with visiting Tretogor and avoiding Mr. Voorhis and the regiment while still at Lettenhove. Or, he ponders briefly even as he flashes a clapping patron a grateful smile, maybe it’s the strange weight that has been lifted from his chest ever since the incident at Kaer Morhen two days ago.

He still can’t quite believe that it had happened, with Sir Geralt acting so out of character and yet still the same as ever, so much so that Jaskier had feigned a headache the day after and lain in bed in a state of shock. A little dramatic, he knows, but he thinks that he’s entitled.

Adjusting his hold on the borrowed lute he strums another chord, softer, this time – preparing to wind the spectators down after the rest of the performance. 

“ _O'er glistening roofs, you float_ ,” he begins, slow and quiet but with enough power behind his voice to make the patrons sway along to the music. “ _Through lily-strewn rivers you dive, yet one day I will know your truths_ …”

There’s a sudden sense of pressure on him, and he trails off as he looks towards the door, only to be met by golden eyes staring at him intently from the shadows.

He swallows, carrying on. “ _If only I am still alive_...” he sings, not letting it get to him. He’s nothing if not a performer. 

The eyes blink, once, twice – as he holds on the last note, only to vanish up the stairs a second later. The patrons in the tavern are cheering and applauding but it takes him a second to snap back to reality, still caught by the memory of that penetrating gaze. One of the patrons claps a hand down on his shoulders and he’s back, the muffled sounds replaced by the full-on noises around him. 

Laughing along with them, he hands the lute back to its owner, scooping up the coins that had been tossed at his feet during his performance. He can’t quite get the memory of being watched out of his head, and it wasn’t unpleasant, not really, more… _comforting_?

He can’t lay his finger on what it felt like, but before he can get too distracted by it one of the maids bounds up to his side, curtseying politely. “If you please, sir,” she says, eyes bright and excited. “There’s two gentlemen and a lady waiting upon you in the parlour.” Jaskier nods, making to collect his things, when the maid continues: “One of the gentlemen is Sir Geralt.”

Jaskier pauses. Of course, gold eyes. He should have known. 

It’s easy now, to slip into a smile at the sound of the name, rather than a frown or scowl like he would have used to do. “Thank you,” he says warmly, nodding to the maid. “Tell them I shall come directly.”

The girl is off like a whip, leaving Jaskier behind. As slowly as possible he draws in a breath, trying to calm himself, even as he deposits his coin into the purse at his hip, slipping the pouch into the pocket of his coat which he slings over his arm. He’s not entirely sure who’s upstairs with Sir Geralt – he has a good idea, of course, but it’s not certain – and as he reins himself in from rushing eagerly upstairs, he wonders when it happened that seeing Geralt became something to _anticipate_ , not dread. 

The stairs must have made enough noise to alert the guests of his approach, because when he steps through the door to the small parlour Sir Geralt is already standing facing the entrance, hands clasped behind his back as he waits. Behind him, towards the back of the room, Jaskier can see Eskel standing with a girl in a blue dress, talking amongst themselves.

“Sir Geralt,” Jaskier greets, inclining his head and receiving the same motion in return. At the back of the room, the conversation stops, the girl looking over curiously. “I hope that you have not been waiting long.”

Sir Geralt isn’t smiling, but Jaskier has already deduced that it’s a rare thing, and the soft expression he wears is more than enough to make up for it. “Not at all,” he responds easily, eyes warm as he looks at Jaskier. “May I…” he hesitates, stepping back and indicating the people behind him. “You know Eskel, of course, but may I introduce my ward, Cirilla?”

Jaskier grins at Eskel, who sends him a wave back, before settling into a kind smile as the girl steps forward, a perfect likeness to the portrait he’d seen in the music room at Kaer Morhen.

“Cirilla, this is Master Julian Pankratz,” Geralt says, and the girl falls into a flawless curtsey before looking up at Jaskier with the most precious smile he’s ever seen.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Cirilla – _oof_!” Jaskier starts, cutting off with a gasp as the girl rushes in for a hug, flinging her arms around his middle and knocking all the air out of him. He blinks, dazed, hesitantly circling his arms over her shoulders, patting her on the back and sending a startled look to Eskel and Geralt, who both appear to be holding back laughter.

After another moment or two the girl pulls away, grinning up at him brightly and practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I’ve heard so much about you!” she declares, and the joyful enthusiasm she exudes is so infectious that Jaskier finds himself beaming back.

“And I, about you,” he responds brightly, taking in the dimples that form in her cheeks and the way she can’t seem to – like him – be able to stand still. “I’ve heard you play the pianoforte and the lute?”

“I’m learning to,” she says happily, still looking at him with the same type of intensity her guardian does, but it’s… _lighter_ , less yearning, more excitement. “I should dearly love to hear you play and sing. Geralt has told me he has rarely heard anything that gave him more pleasure.”

Jaskier laughs, glancing over at Sir Geralt who shifts a little, looking embarrassed. “Well, you shall,” he says, sinking down on one knee so he’s at eye level with the girl. “but I warn you, your guardian has grossly exaggerated my talents, as he only saw me play the pianoforte. No doubt for some mischievous reason of his own, Miss Cirilla.” He sends the girl a wink, causing her to giggle.

“Oh, no. That could not be so,” she laughs. “Geralt _never_ exaggerates. He always tells the absolute truth, though probably only because he talks in hums and grunts.” Over her shoulder, Eskel barks out a laugh, and Geralt looks slightly affronted. Jaskier decides right then and there that this little girl is his new favourite person in the world.

“In that, I can only agree with you,” he says, flashing a grin at the man before looking back at his ward. “It must be ideal, then, to have some quiet. You make me feel quite envious, I have three sisters; our house never has a moment of peace.”

“That’s because you’re there, Julian,” Eskel teases, receiving a glare for his trouble.

Jaskier sighs, shaking his head in mock disappointment before turning back to Cirilla. “Do not listen to him, Miss Cirilla,” he tells her, as seriously as he can make himself. “It’s all lies and slander. I’m a delight.”

“I’m sure,” Cirilla giggles. “And please, call me Ciri.”

“Ciri, then.” Jaskier smiles. “In that case, I must insist you call me Jaskier.”

The girl nods happily, shooting a triumphant look over her shoulder at Geralt, one that Jaskier can’t quite decipher even as the man rolls his eyes and approaches, clearing his throat.

“Lady Yennefer is here with us,” he says gruffly, holding Jaskier’s gaze as he rises to his feet. “And very desirous to see you as well, she insisted on accompanying us. May I summon her?”

Jaskier smiles again, brushing off the knees of his trousers as he straightens fully. “Of course, I should very much like to see her,” he says, remembering that Yennefer did not deliberately break his sister’s heart. He watches as Geralt nods, turning and heading out of the room to retrieve his friend.

“That,” Eskel starts as soon as he’s out of sight, “Was painful.”

Ciri giggles, and Jaskier frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” Eskel says quickly, reaching out his hand for Jaskier to shake, which he does – dubiously. “Just thought I’d never seen Geralt smile so much. Thought he didn’t have it in him.”

Jaskier frowns harder. “He wasn’t smiling _that_ much,” he protests, thinking back to a few days ago. “He did much more when I was at Kaer Morhen.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently, as Ciri and Eskel immediately get smug smirks on their faces. He’s spared from any further teasing, however, as the door opens again to reveal Lady Yennefer, as magnificent as ever in a rich black dress with lace trim.

“Master Julian,” she says warmly, sweeping into the room as if she owns the place. “I can’t tell you how _delighted_ I was when Geralt told me you were not five miles from Kaer Morhen.” She reaches him, pulling him into an embrace that’s warm and welcoming, but a lot less energetic than Ciri’s had been. Pulling back, she keeps her arms on his shoulders as her eyes rake over him, and he doesn’t miss the way they carefully run over his cheek in the spot he had been hit all those months ago. “I can see that you’re doing well.”

“Very well, indeed, thank you,” Jaskier laughs, a little flushed from the attention from four people who he assumes could all destroy him in an instant, if not themselves then by financial leverage.

“Good, good,” Yennefer breathes, removing her hands from his shoulders but continuing to stare at him intently. “Excellent. And your family?”

“Very well, ma’am.”

“Yes?”

Jaskier nods, trying not to laugh as he realises what exactly she’s trying to ask.

“Pray, tell me, are _all_ your sisters still at Lettenhove?” she asks, and it’s closer to what she really means, so Jaskier gives her a nod despite feeling the urge to be difficult. Just beyond, Ciri slips away from Eskel to go tug on Geralt’s sleeve, and he leans down to listen. It’s such a precious gesture, and Jaskier smiles before turning back to Yennefer, content to rib her a bit.

“All except one,” he answers, watching as her face falls slightly and she hangs on his every word. It’s enough that Jaskier decides to end her torment. “My youngest sister is at Novigrad.”

Yennefer’s face clears, and she smiles again, settled. “Ah, wonderful. It seems to long…” she laughs a little. “No, it _is_ too long since I had the pleasure of speaking to you.”

Jaskier grins. “It must be several months.”

“It is above eight months at least,” Yennefer confirms, raising a hand as she speaks. “We have not meant since that day we left town, after the dance at Vengerburg, on the thirtieth of November.”

He’s a little surprised she remembers the date so clearly, but, then again, it was the last time she’s seen Triss. He chuckles. “I think you must be right.”

“I always am.” She smiles at him, all confidence again. “Do you know, I don’t think I can remember a happier time than those short months I spent in Lettenhove.”

That is all the confirmation Jaskier needs to know that she still loves his sister, and even with the rest of the information he’d been able to gather – he’s finally accepted the fact that Geralt may have not have told Yennefer of Triss’ presence, but neither did he deliberately destroy her letters – it’s a comforting thing to know.

“Master Julian,” comes Geralt’s voice and he looks away from Yennefer, over to where the man is still watching him softly, Ciri almost vibrating in her excitement. “My ward has a request to make of you.”

Ciri all but runs to his side, a boundless source of energy. “Jaskier, my guardian and I would be honoured if you and your aunt and uncle would be our guests at Kaer Morhen for dinner,” she says, grinning brightly. “I had wanted it to be tonight, but Eskel says that’s too soon. Would tomorrow evening be convenient?”

Jaskier snorts at the pout she puts on, and he just _knows_ that it’s the look she uses to get whatever she wants, or to worm herself out of trouble. He has two younger sisters; it’s not going to work so well on him – but even as he tries to convince himself of the fact he can feel his resolve slipping. “Thank you, we shall be delighted,” he tells her, smiling at the way her face lights up. “I can answer for my aunt and uncle, we have no fixed engagements.” He glances up, sees Eskel and Yennefer both smiling, but his gaze lingers on Sir Geralt who looks the most pleased he’s ever seen him.

“And shall we hear you play?” Ciri asks, but her tone makes it more of a demand, not that Jaskier had any intention of denying her.

“If you insist upon it,” he sighs, pretending to be put out just to hear her giggle. “If I might be so bold as to borrow a lute, then yes, you shall.”

Ciri’s happy laugh and Geralt’s soft grin carry him through the night.

* * *

The lute he’s playing is not the one that he’d seen a few days ago in the music room, the one with flower motifs – and he’s able to conceal his disappointment once he sees how excited the girl is. Indeed, almost immediately after dinner had ended, Ciri had bounded up and dragged him to the sitting room, seating him next to the pianoforte and pushing a lute into his hands. 

“It’s mine,” she had explained excitedly, crawling onto the bench before the other instrument as the others trickle into the room. “I’m not much good at it, but I can play some chords. I’m better at the piano.”

“If I play now, _you_ have to afterwards,” he had told her, grinning at the way her nose wrinkled in disgust. Instead of answering him, she had waved impatiently, and, as soon as the rest of the guests were seated, he followed her instructions and began to play.

He must still not be at his top performance, as he almost automatically launches into a song about winter – in the middle of _July_ – but Ciri is following the movements of his hands and Geralt is watching him intently, so it must not be too bad.

“ _Around your house, now white from frost, sparkles ice on pond and marsh_ ,” he sings, and he can see as Ciri leans closer to get a better look, causing the corner of his mouth to twitch up as he glances over to her guardian, who, as always, is staring right at him. “ _Your longing eyes grieve what is lost_ ,” he continues, staring back, and Geralt smiles. “ _But naught can change this parting harsh_ …”

It's going to be hard to concentrate if he keeps looking, so he pulls his eyes away – a task that’s far harder to do than he’ll ever admit – and keeps singing.

“ _Spring will return, on the road the rain will fall  
Hearts will be warmed by the heat of the sun  
It must be thus, for fire still smolders in us all  
An eternal fire, hope for each one_.”

Jaskier draws out the last note, smiling as the rest of the room starts applauding, but he finds he can’t look back quite yet, even as the clapping dies down. Instead, he pulls the strap off of his shoulder, setting the lute down on a side table and turning to the adorable little girl in front of him.

“Will you not play again?” she begs, eyes bright and pleading. “You played that song so beautifully.”

“Well, I’m glad _someone_ in your family has an ear for music,” he chuckles, ruffling her hair. “And what about you, hm? You said you’re better at the piano.” He turns to it, running a finger down one of the keys and sighing at the smoothness of it. “It is a beautiful instrument.”

“Geralt gave them both to me this week.” Ciri nods, glancing towards one of the couches, where Jaskier knows her guardian is sitting, presumably watching them, despite the murmur of conversation he can hear going on. He looks back at the girl as she leans forward to confide in him. “He’s strict, you know, but he’s so nice and good. He lets me pull off whatever pranks I want as long as no one gets hurt.” She bites her lip, but can’t quite control her grin. “Unless they _really_ deserve it.”

Jaskier laughs, sweeping her hand up to kiss the back of it gallantly. “I defer to your prowess,” he tells her, and she giggles again. “Remind me never to get on your bad side. I would not like for your guardian’s dislike of me to mean he sends you out to attack.”

“Geralt doesn’t dislike you.” Ciri frowns, drawing her hand away and shuffling on the bench. “He just… doesn’t know how to say things, sometimes. It took him almost a year before he was able to talk to me fully.”

“I can well believe that,” Jaskier responds, but it’s gentler than it would have been even just a month ago, and luckily Ciri realises that he’s not being insincere.

“You should talk to him,” she says softly, and Jaskier blinks, wondering when taking relationship advice from thirteen-year-old girls became a thing that he does. He would never go to either of his younger sisters, and they’re older than Ciri. “He _likes_ you,” she continues. “And he’s a good judge of character.”

Jaskier smiles, following her gaze to look at the man in question. “Indeed, and, as you know, he is never wrong.”

Geralt looks up, away from where he’d been attempting to be polite by trying to engage with the others, and there’s a second of surprise that melts into confusion as he notices both Ciri and Jaskier watching him with small smiles on their faces. Jaskier allows himself to indulge a moment longer, before jumping to his feet and ushering Ciri to face the pianoforte.

“Now, it is your turn,” he tells her, grinning as she glances up shyly. “Oh, I absolutely insist.”

Ciri hesitates. “In front of all these people?” she asks, looking towards the rest of the room before setting her jaw and blinking up at him even as he opens the music book above the keys. “I will play, but please don’t make me sing.”

“If you like,” Jaskier says, sending her a reassuring smile as he ensures the book is open to the page she indicates. “There, have at. I shall be listening intently.”

The girl smiles back, slightly nervously, but her face is determined as she sets her fingers on the keys and starts up the tune. Jaskier waits for a moment to check that she’s got it, before making to head towards the rest of the guests. He’s just passing the couch that Sabrina and Istredd are seated on – he hadn’t been pleased to see them, unlike the others – when Sabrina reaches out and stops him with a hand on his coattail. 

“Pray, Master Julian,” she starts, all false sweetness. “Are the militia still quartered at Lettenhove?”

“No, they are encamped at Novigrad for the summer,” he responds, taking a half-step away and covering the motion by clasping his hands behind his back, painfully aware that the rest of the room is watching.

Istredd looks over, no pretense at kindness in his expression. “That must be a _great_ loss for your family.”

Jaskier tenses, fixing him with his best unfazed look. “We are enduring it as best we can, Mr. Istredd.”

“I should have thought one gentleman’s absence might have caused particular pangs,” Sabrina says, taking a sip of her tea carefully, watching Jaskier as he fights to keep his face neutral.

“I can’t imagine who you mean.”

Sabrina places her cup down demurely, a smirk creeping onto her features. “I understood that certain people found the society of Mr. Voorhis – “

Several things happen at once. There’s a key that gets hit wrong on the piano, the music stopping, and out of the corner of his eye Jaskier can see Geralt go to stand up, both Eskel and Yennefer glaring at Sabrina as hard as they can.

“ – _curiously_ agreeable.”

Jaskier swallows, staring her down for half a second before rushing over to Ciri at the pianoforte. “I’m so sorry, I’m neglecting you,” he says quickly, making a show turning a page in the music book as Ciri glances up at him gratefully, continuing the song a second later. “How can you play with no one to turn the pages?” He rests a hand on her shoulder, lightly, just enough to be a reassurance, finishing his adjustments and straightening. “There.”

Across the room Eskel and Yennefer have settled down, his gaze briefly flickering over them and coming to rest on Sir Geralt, who sits back on the couch and sends Jaskier a grateful look. There are other things in it, too, and although Jaskier hasn’t really been able to decipher them before, he finds that maybe he _doesn’t_ need to. He looks enraptured, his expression fond, and maybe that’s enough. 

The rest of the evening goes by without a hitch, thankfully. Sabrina and Istredd retire early, though whether that’s because of Tissaia glaring at them or simple fatigue he’s not sure. For his part, Jaskier is reminded of his promise months and months ago at Vengerburg to play Yennefer at cards, and he acquiesces, Eskel watching as they try to defeat each other at Gwent and offering terrible advice to both parties, Ciri gleefully joining in.

All too soon, much too early for Jaskier’s tastes, the evening comes to an end, Eskel clapping Jaskier in a quick hug before he leaves while Tissaia sends him a nod, though Yennefer, Ciri, and Geralt accompany them outside to their carriage. The path is lit by torches as they say their goodbyes, his aunt and uncle climbing into the coach while Jaskier hesitates.

“Are you coming, Jaskier?” Borch asks, and he turns to answer.

“I’ll be right there,” Jaskier calls back, turning to thank his host. It seems he’s doing a lot of firsts, tonight.

Yennefer is already escorting Ciri back to the main house, but Geralt is standing a couple feet away, brow furrowed and confusion smattered across his face. His lips move as if sounding a word out. Jaskier watches his mouth, surprisingly drawn to it.

“Your uncle calls you Jaskier,” the man comments.

Jaskier’s eyes snap away from his lips to meet his gaze. He shifts in his stance. “He does.”

“Your friends and sisters, as well. You told Ciri she could too.”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” Geralt appears placated at the answer, but it almost looks like he wants to ask something more - his mouth opening and closing without saying anything.

Jaskier considers him a moment. “It’s a nickname,” he blurts out, unsure of why he felt the urge to explain something so blatantly obvious. Geralt looks at him curiously, and, well, it’s too late to back out now. “Um, you see, Triss couldn’t pronounce the letter ‘L’ when she was little,” he continues, aware that he’s about to start rambling. His hands flutter nervously. “And, well, our old nursemaid used to call me ‘buttercup’, so, ha... you can.... you can figure out the rest.”

Geralt seems satisfied with the explanation, but there’s still a flicker of _something_ in his expression that isn’t quite easy enough to read.

“You can call me Jaskier,” Jaskier says, and immediately bites his lip. _Fuck_ , why did he have to go and say _that_? 

“I can?” Geralt asks, and his face has mostly cleared apart from the slight nerves that have stayed there throughout the evening, but now there’s a faint shimmer of what Jaskier thinks might be hope.

He finds himself nodding enthusiastically before he can stop himself. “Yeah, uh, yes, of course you can,” he says, and immediately becomes aware of the fluttering in his stomach and the heat in his cheeks. “I, uh, I mean... if you’d like.”

Geralt smiles, _really_ smiles, and it’s enough to melt Jaskier’s insides. 

“I’d like,” he confirms, and if it weren’t for sheer force of will Jaskier is sure he’d be a puddle on the ground right about now. He must have been silent a touch too long because Geralt is starting to look concerned, stepping forward and reaching a hand out, before stopping. “If that’s alright?”

Jaskier’s nodding again, unable to control it anymore. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he thinks he must look somewhat like a chicken - bobbing his head this much. “Yes!” he practically shouts, and then shrinks back immediately. “I mean, _yes_ , that’s completely fine. I’d like that very much.”

The smile is back on Geralt’s face and Jaskier suddenly comes to the realisation that there’s just about nothing he wouldn’t do to see that smile every single day.

“Good,” the man says quietly, features sorted by that gentle expression. He hesitates a moment, then reaches out his hand again. “Um, allow me to...?”

“What?” Jaskier blinks, then widens his eyes with no little embarrassment as soon as he understands. “Oh, yes, of course, thank you, that’s very – “ he shuts his mouth with a snap, aware that he’s babbling again, but Geralt’s smile is still there and even broadens when Jaskier swallows his nerves and clasps the man’s fingers, accepting the help into the carriage.

There’s definitely something wistful in Geralt’s expression, now, as Jaskier turns in his seat to look down at him. He’s sort of vaguely aware that his aunt and uncle are in the carriage too, but nothing short of a mythical beast is enough to tear him away from the warm gold of Geralt’s eyes. This close - or maybe it’s just that this is the first time he’s cared to actually study them – he realises that they’re not the colour of gold that he’s been comparing them to. They’re softer, maybe, hints of saffron and auburn and hazel in addition to the overall yellow hue.

“I hope you make it back safely,” Geralt says, and Jaskier belatedly realises that they’re still holding hands, but he doesn’t really want to let go now. He must, though, if they’re to get moving any time in the next year. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, not breaking his gaze as he reluctantly withdraws his hand from the man’s surprisingly tender grasp. “Goodnight, Sir Geralt.”

Slowly, the carriage rumbles into motion and Geralt follows along for a few steps, mouth still curved into that incredible smile. He lifts his hand in farewell and - so softly that Jaskier can barely hear it - bids him the same.

“Goodnight... _Jaskier_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nickname... the hand touch... the gazing longingly into each other's eyes after distracting a thirteen-year-old girl from the man who tried to kidnap her... the tender words...
> 
> We're all repressed Regency maidens waiting for the fleeting skin contact.
> 
> Also, if anyone is wondering, the songs Jaskier sings are from the Witcher books! They're called _Elusive_ and _Winter_ and they're both really beautiful.


	20. Chapter 20

As soon as Geralt enters the parlour again, it’s painfully clear that Sabrina and Istredd had not _actually_ retired when they left earlier, just bided their time, as he sees them sprawled out on one of the couches as if they own the place. Yennefer is absent, likely settling Ciri in for bed, but Eskel is sitting at the table with a glass of brandy and an expression of thinly-veiled distaste. 

Geralt goes to join him, pouring himself a drink and throwing it back, the alcohol not even coming close to the buzz in his veins after being in Julian’s – no, _Jaskier’s_ – company all night and even getting to hold his hand.

To help him into the carriage, admittedly, but _still_.

“How very ill Julian Pankratz looked this evening,” Istredd drawls, and Geralt’s gaze snaps to him even as he hears a low rumble from beside him, one that sounds remarkably similar to Eskel’s growl. “I’ve never, in my life, seen anyone so much altered as he is since the winter.”

“Quite so, my dear,” Sabrina agrees, and Geralt tears his gaze away to reach for the bottle and pour himself another drink – probably a bit more than he should, but he doesn’t care much. “He’s grown so jittery and course.”

To his left, Eskel copies his cousin and drains his glass as Istredd nods at Sabrina’s words. “Oh, indeed,” he agrees emphatically, leveling Geralt with what he’s sure he thinks is a sly gaze. “Sabrina and I were agreeing that we should hardly know him. What do you say, Sir Geralt?”

Geralt stares back steadily. “I noticed no great difference,” he says in a monotone, and he’s definitely not imagining the snort Eskel lets out at that, choosing to ignore it to go stand by the fireplace. He leans on the mantle and takes another sip of his brandy, still staring coolly. “He is, I suppose, energetic. Hardly surprising, as he has been _throughout_ my acquaintance with him.”

“Well,” Sabrina says, covering up her annoyance at Geralt’s refusal to outright agree with her. “For my part, I must confess, I never saw any beauty in his face. His features are not at all handsome, his complexion has no brilliancy.”

She stands up from her place on the couch and Geralt moves to take it, hoping that by sitting he’ll at least get rid of some of the urge to storm from the room, which would not prove beneficial to his plan to trip the two unwanted guests up.

“Oh, his teeth are _tolerable_ , I suppose, but…nothing out of the common way,” Sabrina chuckles, and it’s such a ridiculous statement that were it not for the venom in her voice, Geralt would have laughed. “And as for his eyes, which I have sometimes heard called ‘fine’, I could never perceive anything extraordinary in them.” She sneers. “And in his air altogether there’s a self-sufficiency without fashion, which I find intolerable.”

Geralt decides to keep staring straight ahead, content to let her continue to dig herself into her own grave, but Eskel bristles, sitting forward in his chair as if meaning to get up. “Now, hang on just a – “ he starts, glaring at Sabrina as she cuts him off.

“I remember, when we first knew him,” she continues, and Geralt stifles a grin at how affronted Eskel looks. “In Lettenhove, how _amazed_ we all were to find him a reputed beauty.” She moves to stand in front of Geralt, cutting off his view to his cousin, and looking down at him with a sort of twisted glee. “I particularly recall you, Sir Geralt, one night after they’d been dining at Vengerburg, saying: ‘Him, a beauty? I should as soon as call his mother a wit!’”

Istredd laughs in delight. “Oh, yes, that was such a good line.” Geralt ignores him, sipping the last of what’s in his glass as Sabrina grins down at him, no doubt proud of herself for recalling the words he’d said, but not meant, all those months ago.

“But afterwards, he seemed to improve on you,” she goes on, her smile daring him to disagree. “I even believe you thought him rather _pretty_ at one time.”

Geralt looks at her. “Yes, I did,” he says as evenly as possible, standing up to look down at her from his height. “But that was only when I first knew him.” Sabrina smirks triumphantly, and he has to resist the urge to do the same as he readies his next words. “For it has been many months now that I have considered him one of, if not _the_ handsomest man of my acquaintance.”

Sabrina blinks, mouth dropping open as she looks away, unnerved.

Still on the couch, Istredd scoffs. “You _cannot_ be serious,” he says incredulously, and Geralt rounds on him.

“I am,” he says steadily, even though he knows his expression has morphed into what Ciri calls his ‘scary face’. “I am _deadly_ serious, Mr. Istredd, and unlike _you_ , I am able to admit to my mistakes. I may have not always behaved properly when it comes to Master Julian.” He suppresses a wince as he remembers his own words. “But I believe I have treated him with more respect than, shall we say, destroying correspondence from one of his sisters.”

It had been a shot in the dark, really – as convinced as he is that Istredd and Sabrina had something to do with Triss’ letters to Yennefer not getting through, he still doesn’t have all the facts. 

Istredd blanches, though, and Sabrina gasps. It’s all the confirmation he needs.

Behind him, he hears Eskel get to his feet to follow as he walks out of the room, leaving the two behind to reflect on their mistakes. “That was brutal,” he hears, and Eskel’s grin is evident in his tone of voice. “I’m not saying it was bad, it was actually rather entertaining to watch, but still. Brutal.”

“There were other ways to get the information,” Geralt admits, not breaking his stride in his haste to get away from the sitting room. “But I prefer a direct approach.”

“Trust me, I know,” Eskel laughs, clapping a hand down on his shoulder. “It was quite a bit of excitement for one night, though, and I’m tired. You going up?”

Geralt shakes his head, coming to a stop. “No, I’ll stay down here a while longer,” he says, eyes drifting to the entrance to the music room almost wistfully.

Eskel follows his gaze, and laughs again. “Of course,” he chuckles, teeth glinting in the lamplight as he grins. “Have fun reminiscing, cousin, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Get off,” Geralt grumbles, rolling his shoulder to force Eskel’s hand to slip from its grasp. “Go to bed.”

“Alright, alright.” His cousin sends him one final look that Geralt can’t be bothered to decipher, before turning on his heel to head for the stairs, calling out a final goodnight as he goes. Geralt stay where he is until the footsteps fade away, reaching for an oil lamp on one of the tables before making his way into the music room.

The small flame from the lamp flickers, casting long shadows over the furniture as Geralt looks across the room, eyes falling onto the pianoforte, still opened on the far side of the room. Lips twitching up into what is probably a smile, Geralt walks to it, setting the lamp down on top before closing the lid over the keys, trailing his fingers over the sheet music that’s still set out on the stand. It seems like ages since he saw Jaskier sitting here, helping Ciri and fixing himself with a fond look, even if he knows it’s barely been an hour or two.

Sighing, he tears his gaze away from the instrument to look at the rest of the room. Ciri’s lute has disappeared, likely squirrelled away in her room somewhere upstairs, but in the corner the other lute still rests on its stand, polished coat shining in the dim light. Geralt stares at it, eyes tracing the delicate flower motifs painted cornflower blue that he’d spent extra on when he had seen it at the luthier when he went to get Ciri’s one, still not entirely sure what had made him buy it as well.

He knows, now, that even if he doubted that he’d ever see Jaskier again, that it could never be for anyone else. The blue of the flowers that had caught his eye in the shop had been too close a match for Jaskier’s own, so much so that when he bought it on a whim and kicked himself about it afterwards, he still couldn’t find it in himself to return it.

_Tomorrow_ , he thinks, looking at the instrument. He’ll give it to him tomorrow.

It’s a bit early to see him again so soon after tonight, he knows, logically – but he finds that logic doesn’t have as much of a hold on him as it used to before Jaskier came along. Propriety be _damned_ , he’ll give it to him tomorrow.

* * *

They’re ready to go out that morning, after a quick breakfast and putting on appropriate clothes for another day wandering around the peaks, when the maid knocks on the door and enters the parlour, curtseying with a couple letters in her one hand.

“If you please, sir,” she says brightly, facing Jaskier. “The post has just come. Two letters for you.”

Jaskier smiles, accepting the envelopes as she hands them over. “Thank you, Hanna,” he says, watching her curtsey again as she leaves, turning the paper over in his hands to inspect it, his smile widening as he recognises the handwriting. “Two letters from Triss, at last. I’d been wondering why we hadn’t…” he trails off, glancing at the second letter with a frown as he notices the address written. “This one was misdirected at first,” he notes, reading over the name. “No wonder, for she wrote the direction very ill, indeed.”

“An easy mistake,” Myrgta says, standing by the door with her arm looped through her husband’s.

“Yes,” he laughs, already thinking through how he’ll tease Triss about it when he writes back. “Would you be very angry if I beg you to postpone our outing?”

“Not at all,” Borch responds easily, glancing at Myrgta. “Of course you want to read your letters. Your aunt and I will walk to the green and call back for you in an hour.”

Jaskier nods in agreement. “Thank you,” he says, watching as they smile before leaving the room, the sounds of their footsteps echoing down the stairs as he moves to sit at the table, setting down the letter with the latest date and tearing the earlier one open, grinning at Triss’ looped handwriting.

“My dearest Jaskier,” the letter begins. “I hope your journey has been as delightful as you anticipated. We all miss you, our father most of all, I believe. I confess, I’ve hardly had time to write. Our little cousins have commandeered almost every moment, but they are such dear children. Our mother, indeed, finds their exuberance a little trying for her nerves.”

He shakes his head at that. “Oh, poor Mother.”

“She spends much of the day above stairs in her room, or with her sister,” the letter continues, followed by a small gap in between the paragraphs. “Oh, dearest Jaskier, since writing the above something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature. But I’m afraid of alarming you.”

Jaskier leans forward, a frown tugging at his lips. 

“Be assured, we are all well,” he reads. “What I have to say relates to poor Priscilla.”

He gapes, confused.

“An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed,” the letter says. “The letter was from General Vilgefortz to inform us that Priscilla was gone off to Temeria with one of his officers. To own the truth, with Voorhis.”

_Voorhis_.

The coil of dread that had been twisting ever tighter in his chest since he read Triss’ warning seems to have wound as far as it can go, instead sitting heavily and seeming to weigh down on his lungs, even as he takes in a shaky breath to try and calm himself somewhat before continuing to read. 

“You will imagine our surprise and shock. To Shani, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected.” Jaskier breaths out, trying to keep the pattern even. “I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides. But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “I wish I could believe it,” he mutters to himself, scanning the next line.

“His choice is disinterested, at least. He must know that our father can give him nothing.”

“Yes, that is true,” Jaskier allows, his breathing still uneven and pressure building behind his eyes as he tries to wrap his head around the words. “But how could he do this? She is silly enough for anything. But could Voorhis _love_ Priscilla? _Marry_ her?”

“We expect them soon, returned from Temeria, man and wife. But I must conclude. I cannot be away from our poor mother long. I shall write again as soon as I have news.” He sets down the letter, quickly reaching for the other one and tearing it open as a cloud of guilt and worry mingled with confusion settles on his shoulders. “My dearest Jaskier: I hardly know what to write, but I have bad news,” the second letter starts, and Jaskier holds his breath. “Imprudent as a marriage would be, we now fear worse – that it has not taken place. That Voorhis never intended to marry Priscilla at all.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier swears emphatically, not caring if anyone can hear him despite being alone in the room. “Shit, I _knew_ it.” It’s possibly the first time that Jaskier hates that he was right. Triss may not have suspected, their father may not have known, which makes him the one to blame. He remembers standing in his father’s study the day Priscilla got the invitation, remembers that he tried to stop it. He should have tried _harder_. 

“General Vilgefortz said he feared that Voorhis was not a man to be trusted,” Triss writes, and the image of Ciri from the night before flickers briefly in his mind, Geralt’s words from his letter in the spring echoing through his mind. “They were traced as far as White Bridge, and to Vizima our father has gone with General Vilgefortz to try to discover them. Dearest Jaskier, I cannot help but beg you all to come here as soon as possible.”

Jaskier exhales, breathing ragged as he folds the letter and stands up, legs trembling but thankfully holding him stead as he takes a step towards the door, determined to find his aunt and uncle and set out at once. His holiday will be cut short, but the panic and worry swirling inside of him far outweigh any desire for leisure time.

He’s about two yards away from the door when it opens from the other side, Hanna stepping through and curtseying as Jaskier blinks and falls back in surprise.

“If you please, sir,” she says, opening the door wider. “Sir Geralt is here to see you.”

She steps aside and the man himself walks in, as handsome and brooding as ever, bowing once before straightening. “Jaskier, I hope this…” he trails off, a frown settling onto his face as he takes in the scene. 

Jaskier knows he must look a sight. He’s not actively cried, yet, but a tear had escaped and he knows his eyes are red-rimmed and face downcast. “I beg your pardon,” he manages to mumble, not daring to look Sir Geralt in the eye. “I must find my uncle this moment on business that cannot be delayed. I have not an instant to lose.”

Sir Geralt takes a step forward, one hand stretched out hesitantly while the other adjusts its hold on the box he’s carrying, that Jaskier is out of it enough not to have noticed at first. “ _Gods_ , Jas, what’s the matter?” he asks, carefully, and the shortened nickname barely registers as he sniffs at the words. It only seems to make the man more worried. “Of course, I will not detain you for a moment, but let me go, or let the servant go and fetch your aunt and uncle,” he insists, taking another step forward so that his outstretched hand hovers over Jaskier’s shoulder. “You are not well; you cannot go yourself.”

Jaskier tries to pull himself together. “No, I must,” he decides, moving to step forwards, but Sir Geralt’s hand closes gently around his upper arm to turn him away.

“Come, I insist, this will be for the best,” he says softly, leading him to the table and gently pushing for him to sit back down in the vacated chair, setting his box down on the table to kneel in front of Jaskier. He looks towards the door, where the maid is still hovering. “Have Borch and Myrgta fetched here at once,” he orders. “They walked in the direction of…” he glances back at Jaskier.

“The green,” Jaskier says, voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper, but he doesn’t think he can manage much more at the moment.

“The green,” Geralt repeats, voice louder so the maid can hear, one of his hands settling on Jaskier’s shoulder with the other still on his arm. 

“Yes, sir, at once,” Hanna replies readily, leaving the room with a last concerned look, the door falling shut behind her. 

Geralt sighs, his hands squeezing slightly as a form of comfort, and it’s enough to ground Jaskier for a moment, enough that the horror of having Sir Geralt witness him like this starts to set in.

“You are not well,” Geralt repeats his earlier statement, and there’s clear concern in his tone. “May I not call a doctor?”

“No, I am well,” Jaskier says, but it comes out broken. He clears his throat, determined to stay at least partially presentable. “I am well.”

It doesn’t appear to appease Geralt, his face still a mask of barely-concealed worry. One of his fingers twitches. “Is there nothing you can take for your present relief?” he asks, casting his gaze about the room. “A… glass of wine? Can I get you one? Truly, you look very ill.”

Jaskier huffs a laugh at that, finally looking up from his hands to meet Geralt’s eyes. “No, I thank you,” he says, and is relieved to not that his voice is somewhat steady again. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well.” He shakes his head, staring straight at the eyes which aren’t quite gold. “I am only distressed by some dreadful news, which I have just received from Lettenhove.”

He chokes on the final word and Geralt sits back, his hand falling from his arm but the other remaining in its place on his knee.

Jaskier breathes out, and it’s easier than before. “I’m sorry, forgive me,” he says, setting his jaw and silently ordering himself not to lose it, not here, not now, not with Sir Geralt watching. “I’ve just received a letter from Triss with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My youngest sister has left all her friends… has _eloped_. Has thrown herself into the power of…” he pauses, looking away. “…of Mr. Voorhis.”

Sir Geralt’s face settles back into its usual impassive glare, his hand falling from his knee. Jaskier tries not to think of what that could mean.

“They have run away together from Novigrad,” he continues, twisting the fabric of his coat between his hands. “You know him too well to doubt the rest.” Geralt looks away, and Jaskier chuckles darkly. “Do you know, I used to find the thought of running away with the person I loved to be beautiful, _romantic_.” He shudders. “How wrong I was. And Priscilla… she has no money, no connections. Nothing that can tempt him.”

_Unlike Ciri_ remains unsaid, but he knows Geralt hears it all the same. He stands up abruptly, turning his back to the table and walks a few steps away, hands clenched into fists.

“When I think that I might have prevented it,” Jaskier continues, staring at Sir Geralt’s back. “I, who knew what he was. Had his character been known, this could not have happened…” he stops, trying to compose himself as the words get away from him. “But it is all too late now.”

“I am grieved indeed. Grieved, shocked,” Sir Geralt says, finally breaking his silence as he turns back around, expression indecipherable. “But is it certain, _absolutely_ certain?”

Jaskier sighs, resting his head in his hands. “Oh, yes,” he confirms, hating that he does. “They left Novigrad together six days ago.” He looks up, rubbing his eyes as he does. “They were traced as far as Vizima, but not beyond. They are certainly not gone back to Lettenhove.”

“And what has been done?” Geralt asks, voice sharp as he walks to the window and clasps his hands behind his back. “What has been attempted to recover her?”

“My father has gone to Vizima with General Vilgefortz,” Jaskier responds, staring at the back of the man’s head and trying not to imagine what he must be thinking. “Triss writes to beg my uncle’s immediate assistance. I hope that we shall leave within the hour.” He pauses. “But what can be done? I know, very well, that _nothing_ can. How is such a man to be worked on?” Geralt turns back around, and Jaskier watches him, almost pleading, though he’s too ashamed to admit it. “How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. She is lost forever, and our whole family must partake of her ruin and disgrace.”

Geralt starts at that, his impassive expression flickering into distress for just a moment before returning to its usual state. “I am afraid you have long been desiring my absence,” he says evenly, and Jaskier blinks, because that’s not true, but he can’t very well go on and say it. “This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my ward’s having the pleasure of seeing you at Kaer Morhen today.”

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier says. _Of course_ the man’s only concern is for his ward, and he can’t fully blame him. “Be so kind as to apologize for us to Ciri. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. And if you would be so kind as to conceal the unhappy truth as long as possible. I know that it cannot be long.”

“You may be assured of my secrecy,” Geralt promises, and despite knowing that the man probably has rescinded whatever good opinion he once had, Jaskier believes him. “But I have stayed too long.” He walks back over to the table, gaze resting on the box which still rests there. “That is for you,” he says gruffly, refusing to meet Jaskier’s eye. “I shall leave you now. hope you have a safe journey.”

Jaskier stands to watch him go. “Yes, thank you.”

Geralt bows, heading for the door. He opens it and pauses, turning around to look back once, before exiting the room and pulling the door behind him. 

Jaskier breathes out, slumping back into his chair. “I’ll never see him again.” The words come unbidden, but once they’re out, he knows they’re true. If Geralt had scruples about his family’s status _before_ , well, now his concerns have been increased tenfold – and not only that, but proven correct.

He stays in a state of semi-shock the rest of the morning, numbly explaining what has occurred as soon as his aunt and uncle return, taking in their startled expressions and watching silently as the servants load their luggage onto the carriage, including the box from Sir Geralt that he can’t find the strength to open yet. For now, he’s decided, it will be better not to risk opening up a tear in his heart by thinking of the man.

“Though I can believe what you say of Voorhis, I cannot do the same for Priscilla,” his uncle says as they stand outside the inn, watching as the driver readies the horses.

“Believe it,” Jaskier says bitterly, frown ever-present on his face. “Ever since the militia were quartered at Lettenhove, there has been _nothing_ but love, flirtation, and officers in her head!” He reaches up to brush away a tear, one that’s no longer sad or upset, but angry. “It’s all she could think about!”

“You must not assume the worst,” Borch tells him gently. “It may be that this is all a misunderstanding, or just a passing folly that her friends can hush up, and will in time be quite forgotten.” He sighs when his nephew shakes his head adamantly. “It _is_ possible, Jaskier.”

Myrgta comes up beside them as the horses are settled. “Indeed, it is,” she says reassuringly. “Why would any young form a design against a girl who’s by no means unprotected or friendless? And who’s actually staying in the general’s household? Look at it any way you like – “ she pauses, stepping up into the coach with her husband following. “ – the temptation is not worth the risk.”

“Not, perhaps, a risk in his own interest,” Jaskier says, pausing as he waits for his aunt and uncle to be settled in the carriage before stepping in himself, the icy tendril of fear niggling at him ever since he’d first learned of Voorhis targeting his youngest sister. “But I _do_ believe him capable of risking everything else. Not least because he knows it will hurt me, and by extension, Sir Geralt.” He mumbles the last line, but his uncle picks up on it anyhow.

“Sir Geralt?” Borch frowns. “How could this hurt him?”

Jaskier looks away, heart clenching as the carriage starts to move. “Because now he’ll regret ever knowing me.”

* * *

Ciri is playing the pianoforte again.

She’s doing it to annoy him, he’s sure, an easy way to express her anger at his informing her that Jaskier had left this morning. For two hours she’d pestered him to tell her _why_ , cried and yelled and thrown a vase to the ground before finally giving up on that tactic to play her instruments non-stop, a far more effective technique, as every note and chord remind him painfully of Jaskier.

The rest of the guests are gathered in the music room as well, supper had been over a good hour and the foul mood he’s in seems to be affecting them as well. Yennefer and Eskel haven’t tried to talk to him yet, but he knows it’s only a matter of time. He has until tomorrow morning, at the latest, to work out what he’ll tell them. And Ciri, too, he realises.

Won’t _that_ be a fun conversation.

Sabrina and Istredd are conspicuously absent, thank the gods, because as angry and tense as Geralt is, he’s not sure he’d be able to stop himself from throwing them out of the house once and for all. He still needs to have a talk with Yennefer, but now is not the time. This issue is more pressing, and he still hasn’t figured out what to do about it.

“You’re very quiet this evening, Sir Geralt,” Tissaia comments, making her way over to the table to pour herself a drink. “Are you alright? Is it the loss of Master Julian Pankratz that affects you so?”

At the name, Geralt looks up sharply. “ _What_?” he snaps, agitated, and the flicker of surprise in Tissaia’s eyes and the sudden silence that falls over the room doesn’t escape his notice, just serves to make him even more frustrated. “Excuse me,” he grits out, pushing himself up from his seat and ignoring the look Yennefer and Eskel share as he pushes past them, leaving as quickly as he can. 

He’d only just gotten to meet Jaskier, gotten him back, to actually start to _know_ him – and now this. Voorhis had better shape up, and fast, because Geralt is done waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voorhis had better watch out!
> 
> Also, I have another story idea... it's not an AU, actually (I know, shocking) but it's a lot of hurt/comfort and some good angst. I think I'll probably start uploading it only after this is done, though.


	21. Chapter 21

Yennefer and Eskel manage to make it an entire thirty-six hours before they pounce. Jaskier had left the day before yesterday, and Geralt is already feeling his departure keenly, even if he’d scant had him in his home. Ciri is still playing the pianoforte and her lute as loudly and aggressively as possible, only increasing in volume every time he tries to talk to her. He’s a little impressed, actually, at her dedication.

He’s sitting at the breakfast table – thankfully vacant – and has just finished pouring himself a cup of tea when his cousin and friend burst into the room.

“Alright, what did you do?” Yennefer demands without ceremony, slamming her hands down on the table across from him. Behind her, Eskel stands with his arms crossed and a glower on his face.

Geralt sighs, setting down his cup. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Bullshit,” Yen snarls. “Like hell you didn’t. I _know_ you, Geralt, and I know that you left the morning after the dinner to visit Jaskier in town, and came back within the hour to tell us that Jaskier offered his apologies and had left. What. Did. You. Do.”

“I didn’t _do_ anything, Yen,” Geralt growls, really not enjoying her tone. He may have deserved it in the past, yes – but he definitely doesn’t now. “I really didn’t.” Yennefer scoffs, pushing up off the table and folding her arms across her chest in an eery imitation of Eskel. “I _didn’t_ ,” he insists. “There was a… family emergency. He had to go take care of it.”

Eskel steps forward, still frowning. “Family emergency,” he repeats, sounding doubtful. Geralt clenches his jaw, making a muscle twitch. “You’re going to have to explain it a bit better than _that_.”

“Voorhis has run off with his youngest sister,” he snaps, and finds a little twisted delight in the way both of his company blanches, stepping back in their surprise. He gets to his feet and spreads his hands on the table, the same way Yennefer had done before. When he speaks, his voice is low and deadly. “Voorhis did the same thing to his sister as he did to Ciri,” he explains, slowly, trying not to explode. “So, when I say I did nothing, I mean it. I did _nothing_.”

Eskel looks like he’s just been punched in the face – and he should know, he’s done it himself before – while Yennefer looks downright _murderous_. Her expression is cold as she squares her shoulders to look Geralt in the eye. She won’t apologise, he knows this, it’s one of the many things about her that he’s well acquainted with – but there’s a definite glimmer of regret in her eyes that is more than he could ask for.

“Right,” she says brusquely, raising one immaculate sleeve of her dress to sweep through the air as she makes an obscene gesture. “Right. So. What’s the situation?”

Straight to the point as ever.

“I don’t know much,” Geralt admits, sitting back down in his chair as Eskel moves to join him at the table. Yennefer stays standing, and that’s probably for the best, actually, she’s likely to break something and pacing might help relieve at least _some_ of that energy. “All I know is that his sister – Priscilla – was staying in Novigrad with the militia. A little over a week ago, she disappeared with Voorhis, and were tracked to Vizima. That’s it.” He glances at the clock over the mantle. “Jaskier will have made it home by this afternoon. That’s all I know.”

“That’s all you know,” Eskel parrots, running a hand down his face. “Shit, alright. What are you going to do about it?”

Geralt looks at him sharply. “Do about it?”

“Yes, what are you going to do about it,” Eskel repeats himself, and the words are getting a little repetitive, now, and the irritation is clear on Yennefer’s face.

“What our lovely Eskel is _trying_ to ask, Geralt, is whether or not you have a plan in place to help,” she says, and her voice is too even to be natural. “Are you going to assist in any way?”

“I… I don’t know,” Geralt admits, frowning down at the table. He wants to, yes – but he’s not sure how to go about it. “I don’t know what I can do.”

Yennefer lets out a put-upon sigh, the one she uses when she thinks he’s being an idiot. “You said they haven’t found the happy couple yet,” she points out, and he nods in confirmation. “Right. In that case, may I suggest you doing that little undertaking? You know Voorhis, know his methods and his hideaways, you could find him far faster than anyone else.”

Eskel nods his agreement. “She’s right,” he says. “You could go to Vizima and find them yourself. Hopefully nothing too damaging has happened.”

“Other than ruining the already damaged reputation of their family,” Yennefer quips bitterly, the words pointed at Geralt and so harsh he actually flinches, pushing back the wave of guilt that arises when he hears them, remembering how he… alright, _wrongly_ tried to convince his friend that Triss was not worth the trouble. They’ll have time to deal with that later.

“Alright,” he says slowly, breathing out. “Fine, yes, I can do that. I can track him down.” He pauses, looking first at Yennefer, then his cousin. “And then what?”

“You’ll figure it out.” Yen waves a hand dismissively. “And if you can’t, send for me. I’d love to get a chance to crush that disgusting parasite of a man.” Her grin is feral and bordering on manic.

Geralt hums, agreeing with the sentiment. “Right,” he says, steeling himself and standing up. “Right. I’ll leave in the morning, make it to Vizima in a day and a half. See if I can find where they’re holed up.” He looks at his friends. “You two should stay here. Look after Ciri. You’re welcome to stay at Kaer Morhen as long as you like.”

“You’re going alone?” Eskel frowns. “Not that I don’t trust in your determination, Geralt, but two heads are better than one.” He smirks at Yennefer. “Besides, we don’t _actually_ want to kill the man.”

“Speak for yourself,” Yennefer grumbles.

“You’ll stay here,” Geralt repeats himself, giving each a stern look, which, granted, doesn’t work on them as well as it does on Ciri. Not that it really works on Ciri either, mind. He smirks a bit as a thought comes to him, remembering when he was last in Vizima two weeks ago. “I’ll get Lambert to help,” he decides, and Eskel grins. “He’s always more than happy to go on a hunt… _and_ knock someone about a bit if necessary.”

Yennefer’s smile is razor-sharp.

* * *

Jaskier is exhausted when Lettenhove finally comes into sight, the buildings flickering past as the carriage trundles on towards home. He’s barely aware of stepping down onto the gravel, two days of travelling wearing him out more than he had anticipated.

He looks up sharply when excited yells sound from the house, a blur pushing past him and revealing itself as one of his cousins, gone to embrace his mother and father. The other two follow swiftly, and behind them steps Triss, hair pulled back in a single braid and a simple blue dress on. 

“Oh, Jask, I am so glad to see you,” she breathes in relief, pulling him in for a hug as soon as his feet lead him to her side, then urging him through the open door.

“Has anything been heard?” Jaskier presses, yanking off his coat with little ceremony.

Triss shakes her head. “No, not yet,” she says, and there’s a concerned crease on her brow that Jaskier absolutely hates. “But now our uncle is come, I hope everything will be well. Our father left for town five days ago. And we’ve heard from him only once since then to tell us he has arrived in safety.” She reaches out to take Jaskier’s coat and lay it on the table. “Mother has been asking for you every five minutes since daybreak.”

Jaskier resists rolling his eyes, instead focusing on pulling off his gloves. “And how is she?”

“She has not yet left her room,” Triss responds, eyes wide. 

“You look pale,” Jaskier notes, throwing his gloves to the side and reaching for her hand. “Oh, Triss. How much you must have gone through.”

“I am so happy to see you, Jask.” The relief ever-present in her tone is palpable, and Jaskier can feel it even as his aunt and uncle finally enter, their children scattering again to go play. Triss nods towards them politely, beckoning them to the stairs with one hand still holding her brothers. “Come, come. Mother is waiting for you.”

They all follow, Jaskier close behind as they make their way into their mother’s room. He stops still at the sight, and he knows the situation is dire, but Priscilla isn’t _dying_ , so to see his mother still in her nightgown when it’s gone two in the afternoon, fanning herself with her handkerchief, is a bit much. Shani sits beside her, and despite actually being dressed, at least, she doesn’t seem much better off.

“Oh, oh Julian!” she gasps, and Jaskier moves from his spot in the doorway to come closer, taking his mother’s hand as she extends it with exaggerated frailty. On her other side, Borch does the same. “Oh, Julian, oh, Borch. We are all ruined forever!”

Jaskier sighs, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to settle himself. She’s not _wrong_ , not really, but surely panicking and throwing a fit won’t help in any way. Though, who is he kidding – he’s likely to do the same thing once he and Triss are alone.

“If only Mr. Pankratz had taken us all to Novigrad, none of this would have happened,” his mother despairs, sniffing loudly. Jaskier catches Myrgta’s eye as she moves to sit and has to look away to keep himself from sighing again. “I blame that Vilgefortz and his wife. I am sure there was some great neglect on their part, for she is not the kind of girl to do that sort of thing it she had been properly looked after.”

“Mother,” Jaskier says weakly, knowing that it won’t do any good. No matter how many times he says it, Priscilla has always been their mother’s favourite – and no protests are going to change that.

“And now here is Mr. Pankratz gone away,” she continues, ignoring him just as he thought she would. “And I know he will fight Voorhis, and then he will be killed. And then what is to become of us all? That Ferrant will turn us out before he is cold in his grave. And if you are not kind to us, brother, I don’t know what we shall do.”

Borch glances up at Jaskier, and he gladly removes his hand from his mother’s allowing his uncle to grasp both instead. “Sister, calm down,” he says soothingly, reminiscent of the tone he’d used when Jaskier and Triss were children. “Nothing dreadful will happen. I shall be in Vizima tomorrow morning, and there we will consult as to what is best to be done.”

“Yes!” Mrs. Pankratz exclaims, sitting up a little and suddenly – _miraculously_ – looking a lot livelier. “Yes, that is it! You must find them out, and if they be not married you must make them marry. But, above all, keep my dear husband from fighting.”

Triss steps forward, and Jaskier really does have to admit that she’s always been much more unflappable than him. Her hand is gentle as she places it on her mother’s shoulder, her voice calm and collected in a way that Jaskier is too irritated to replicate. “Mother, I’m sure he does not mean to fight,” she tries, only to have her hand shrugged off as their mother whirls.

“Oh, yes! Yes, he does!” she insists, and her hysteria borders on humorous. “And… and Voorhis will kill him sure unless you can prevent it, brother.” She turns away from her children, thankfully, and Jaskier catches Shani dart out of the room from the corner of his eye. He wishes he could follow, but his mother is too worked up and he wants to at least be of _some_ help. “You must tell him what a dreadful state I’m in,” the woman continues. “And how I have such trembles and flutters all over me; such spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and beatings at my heart that I can get no rest either night or day.”

“Sister, calm yourself,” Borch says placatingly, and Jaskier’s impressed, even Triss is starting to get a little twitchy from her last tirade.

“And tell Priscilla not to give any directions about wedding clothes until she has seen me,” Mrs. Pankratz adds, wrenching her hands out of her brother’s grasp with surprising strength, fanning herself with the handkerchief again. “For she does not know the best warehouses!”

She breaks down into more manic sobs, and Jaskier grits his teeth, catching his aunt’s irritated gaze.

* * *

There’s still some noise coming from the room upstairs, but the rest of the house is peaceful as Jaskier slips into the sitting room, closing the door behind him to muffle the sounds a little further. Triss stands by one of the windows, looking out into the garden, and Jaskier goes to join her, settling down on the sill.

“Now, Triss, tell me everything about it that I’ve not already heard,” he says gently, looking up at her when she sighs. “What did General Vilgefortz say? Had they no apprehension about anything before the elopement took place?”

“General Vilgefortz did own that he suspected some partiality on Priscilla’s side, but nothing to give him any alarm,” Triss admits, turning her gaze away from the garden to look down at him, eyes wet. “Jaskier, I feel _I_ am to blame, for it was I who urged you not to make Voorhis’ bad conduct known. And now poor Priscilla is suffering for it. No one else expected him for a moment.” She lets out a shaky breath. “I am… I am to blame.”

“No, _no_ ,” Jaskier says immediately, reaching for her hand and making shushing noises to try and calm her. “You are not to blame, no more than I, or Sir Geralt, or anyone else deceived by Voorhis.” He squeezes her hand and waits until she looks him in the eye. “You have nothing to blame yourself for. Others are culpable, not you.”

Triss lets out a wet laugh. “You cannot convince me you do not blame yourself, Jask,” she says, and he looks away rather than admit she’s right. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Triss sigh, letting go of his hand to reach for a piece of paper sitting on the table. He turns back to her, interest piqued. “She wrote a note for Francesca before she went away,” Triss explains, holding out the paper to him. He takes it eagerly.

“My dear Francesca, you will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise tomorrow morning as soon as I am missed,” Jaskier reads, wincing at the words. “I am going to Temeria, and if you cannot guess with whom, then I shall think you a simpleton. For there is but one man on the continent I love. Don’t send word to Lettenhove of my going. It will make the surprise all the greater when I write to them and sign my name Priscilla Voorhis. What a good joke it will be! I can scarce write for laughing.”

He looks up at Triss, who appears resigned. “There you have it,” she says, glancing back out the window.

“Thoughtless, _foolish_ Priscilla,” Jaskier disparages, his anger from before resurfacing. “What a letter to have written at such a moment. But at least it shows she believed Voorhis’ purpose was marriage, whatever he might have persuaded her to afterwards. Our poor father...” He folds up the letter and hands it back to his sister, not wanting to look at it any longer. “How he must have felt.”

“I never saw anyone so shocked,” Triss tells him, setting the letter back on the table and sitting down beside him on the sill. “He could not speak a word for fully ten minutes. Our mother was taken ill with the hysterics and the whole house was in confusion. Lady Daven has been very kind, offering her services.”

Jaskier scoffs. “She had better have stayed home,” he snaps, getting up and pacing angrily towards the door at the thought of such pity being bestowed. “Assistance is impossible and condolence insufferable. Let her triumph over us at a distance and be satisfied.” He opens the door in a huff.

“Jask, that is unkind,” Triss admonishes, and reluctantly he closes the door and steps back inside the room, not quite looking his sister in the eye. “I’m sure she meant well.”

“Yes, perhaps she did,” he says quietly, and though internally he’s still seething; he shouldn’t be taking it out on his sister. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t help but be…” he trails off, lifting his head to look Triss in the eye. “Oh, Triss, do you not see that _more_ things have been ruined by this business than Priscilla’s reputation?”

Triss’ brow is furrowed, and alright, he wasn’t _entirely_ forthcoming, but still. She should have realised – though, he’ll admit, she’s probably been more preoccupied with their family than he has, running everything through in his head for the past two days. She looks down at the ground and he sighs again, turning back around and leaving the room. He’ll go to his own for a while – whether to sit and stew in silence or scream at the wall he’s not sure – but to be alone, at least. He’s not had much time for that recently.

In the end, he does neither. He’s too high-strung to sit quietly, but not worked up enough to throw a full fit. He sits on his bed, strumming his lute, though it’s not really any actual songs or snippets of prose, just faintly aggressive chords and mis-matched stanzas. At some point he nips down to the kitchen and steals food for his dinner, not wanting to be in the company of his family any longer than he has to, and by the time he hears the others settling down for the night he feels… _empty_ , almost.

He can still hear Sir Geralt’s final words to him, sitting heavy in his mind as he stares at the box on his dresser, which he hasn’t had the heart to open. _I have stayed too long. I shall leave you now_. Matter-of-fact, calm, and entirely disinterested. Ciri, at least, Jaskier tries to tell himself, will be upset by his departure. Eskel too, if he pushes himself. Maybe Yennefer.

But not _Geralt_.

He’d made it clear, once before, that Jaskier’s family status was far below his own – not altogether incorrectly, as much as he tries to delude himself – and this would only cement that perception. Jaskier knows he may be naïve, young and inexperienced in a lot of things, but he’s not foolish. Any association with him now would be a stain on Sir Geralt’s reputation.

There’s a knock at the door and Jaskier glances away from the mirror he’d been staring at contemplatively, checking the clock to see that it’s nearly midnight. “Come in,” he calls, and a second later the door swings open to reveal Triss, quietly padding into the room and shutting the door behind her. 

“I thought you would not be in bed yet,” she says softly, climbing up onto the bed. She’s already in her nightgown and her hair is undone, still wavy from the confines of the braid from earlier, and she comes to sit in her usual spot, pressing a brush into her brother’s hands. “I’ve been thinking about what you said this afternoon,” she says, settling into a cross-legged position. “That it is not only Priscilla’s reputation that has been ruined.”

Jaskier sighs, shifting so that he can reach Triss’ hair, running the brush through it in the time-tested motion that calms them both. “I was angry and upset,” he says after a moment considering his words. “I should not have said it, it does no good to dwell on such things.”

Triss hums thoughtfully, tilting her head back for better access. “You meant, I suppose, that you… and Shani and I… have been tainted by association; that our chances of making a good marriage have been materially damaged by Priscilla’s disgrace.”

“Uh, yes.” Jaskier blinks, pausing in his ministrations for a second. “Well, the chances of any of us making a good marriage were _never_ very great; now I should say… they are non-existent. No one will solicit our society after this. Sir Geralt made that very clear to me.” He starts brushing again, the last words bitter and acidic on his tongue.

His sister starts, turning to face him. “Sir Geralt? Does he know our troubles?”

“He happened upon me a moment after I first read your letter,” Jaskier admits, dropping his hands to his lap and staring resolutely at one of the bedposts. “He was very kind, very gentleman-like, but he made it _very_ clear that he wanted nothing more than to be out of my sight.” He huffs, shaking his head a little at the sharp thought, reaching to take Triss’ hands as she shifts to face him fully. “He will not be renewing his addresses to me. He will make very sure his friend does not renew his to you.”

“I never expected Lady Yennefer would renew her addresses, Jask,” Triss says, looking down at their joined hands and tracing her thumb along his. “I am quite reconciled with that. But surely, you do not desire Sir Geralt’s attentions, do you?”

Jaskier chuckles, but it’s more pained than he’d like to admit. “No, no. I never sought them.”

He _hadn’t_ , truthfully… but perhaps that had changed in the last week. He’s not sure. He doesn’t want to think about it.

Triss, for all her virtues, doesn’t help. 

“But do you think he was intending to renew them?” she presses, leaning forward a little. “You think he is still in love with you?”

Jaskier’s breath hitches at the word. “I don’t know,” he says, quietly, barely audible over the sound of his frantically beating heart. “I don’t know what he was two days ago. All I know is that now, he… or any other respectable person will want nothing to do with us.”

The words are harsh, but true, and Triss looks down, her face pulled into a frown that stays even as she pulls her hands away and stands.

“I suppose you’re right,” she says softly, clutching the brush up and heading towards the door. “Goodnight, Jaskier.” She leaves, shutting the door behind her with a sense of finality, and Jaskier is once again left alone in his room, a flickering sense of regret pooling in his stomach as he thinks of his sister’s hurt expression. He’s right, he knows he is, but he really wishes he wasn’t.

On the dresser, the box sits enticingly. He still doesn’t want to open it, staring at it for what’s probably far too long, willing it to disappear or burst into flames or something, but the box stubbornly stays exactly the same. A minute passes, five, ten – and then he springs up from the bed with a scowl and hauls the box off of the dresser and onto the bed with him, setting it in front of his crossed legs as he impatiently unties the string and rips off the paper, revealing a fancy-looking wooden case. There are clasps on one side and he flicks them open, lifting the lid and… oh.

_Oh_.

He is _fucked_.

There, sitting in between the crushed velvet sides, sits a lute.

It’s not just any lute, either – it’s the one he had seen almost a week ago at Kaer Morhen, the one in the music room that he’d naturally assumed was Ciri’s, even when she pushed the other, simpler one into his hands the night of the dinner. It’s the lute with those beautiful flowers, painted a bright cornflower blue along the edges, trailing a circle around the body of the instrument. 

He reaches out, to – he’s not sure what, exactly, to touch it, he guesses – and his hands are shaking slightly as he trails a finger along the strings, up the neck and over one of the tuning pegs, and _finally_ , over the blue flowers. A choked sob crawls its way out of his throat and he gasps on it, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes as he realises that despite the fact that he’ll never see Geralt again, that the man wants nothing to do with him – that’s not what _he_ wants.

The last time he was faced with the realisation that he wouldn’t see Geralt again there was a tone of relief, but it seems there won’t be this time. He doesn’t know when the transition happened, when Sir Geralt of all people became one of the ones he would long to see, but he supposes it doesn’t matter now.

One of the callouses on his fingertips catches on the flowers and he sobs again, the tears flowing freely as he draws the lute into his lap, hunched over it like a dying man. There’s no one in the room to see him cry, so he lets go, breaking down in a way he hasn’t since he was a child.

And it _hurts_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got some tears :(


	22. Chapter 22

“So,” Lambert drawls, and it’s only been two hours but Geralt still wants to punch him. “Remind me why we’re here again?”

Geralt takes a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm. It wouldn’t be beneficial to blow up now before they’ve even found what they’re looking for. “You remember Voorhis?” 

Lambert grunts out an affirmative. “That fucking prick who tried to take your cub.”

“Hmm,” Geralt confirms, eyes scanning the street as they press forward. “He’s here, in Vizima. We need to find him.”

“Revenge,” Lambert says, nodding his head approvingly. “Perfect. I love it.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, pushing past another drunkard stumbling by. “Not revenge,” he says, then pauses. “Alright, maybe a _little_ revenge. But mostly prevention.”

“Prevention of what, exactly?” Lambert asks, followed by a string of curse words as he trips over a loose cobblestone. Geralt tries not to smirk as he catches a glimpse of the tavern they’re been searching for up ahead.

“He’s done what he did to Ciri to another girl,” he explains, shouldering the door open and stepping into the crowded building. “The sister of a… a _friend_ of mine. It’s my fault for not exposing his character to the world sooner, so it’s only natural that I should be the one to fix it.”

He scans the crowd, searching for the maid he’d met the day before who seemed to have some information on Voorhis’ whereabouts. He doesn’t find her immediately, and standing as they are – two well-dressed men in the doorway of a rundown tavern – they’re too conspicuous, so instead navigates his way through the slobbering people gathered in their revels to take up residence in a table in the corner. 

Lambert slides into the seat across from him, eyes narrowed. “A _friend_ of yours,” he repeats dubiously, and Geralt is once again reminded that the gods don’t seem to care for him or his sanity. “This wouldn’t happen to be the friend Eskel wrote about?”

Geralt’s gaze snaps up. “What did Eskel write?”

“Oh, not much.” Lambert leans back in his seat, watching Geralt with a smug smirk. “Just that you’re a fucking idiot who can’t tell when he’s got a good thing right in front of him.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says noncommittedly, though he knows it’s a fair assessment.

“Also said he’s not too bad on the eyes, either.”

Oh _fuck_ no. “Lambert,” he growls in warning, and the other man shoots his hands up in a placating gesture, though the smirk remains on his face. Geralt glares at him, but it’s not ever to wipe the look off of his face, he knows from experience.

He would have gladly kept staring Lambert down as threateningly as possible, if it weren’t for the clearing of a throat he hears from just beside him. He blinks, and turns, and sees the maid he’d found yesterday watching with wide eyes, her hands fisted in her skirts.

“Sir Geralt,” she squeaks, and it sounds like she’d rather be anywhere other than here. “That man you’re looking for, he’s staying at the Hereford Inn. It’s on – “

“It’s on Hardwick Street, I know,” Lambert finishes for her, looking towards Geralt with a glint in his eye. “Fuckin’ seedy place. Even further in the slums than this.” He glances around the tavern with an appraising eye. “Been there once or twice. Your man’s got bad taste.”

Geralt hums, turning back towards the girl who’s really starting to look dangerously pale. “Thank you,” he tells her, as softly as possible, pulling out some coins from his pouch and handing them to her. The girl’s eyes go wide, and he has the sudden thought that it’s probably more than she makes in a month. “That’s all,” he says gently, and she nods, eyes round, before turning and darting off into the throng of people.

“You’re going soft,” Lambert grunts, slamming his palms on the table as Geralt sends him a withering look. “Guess we’re off to the Hereford, then.” Geralt nods and stands, Lambert trailing behind. “Can’t say I mind,” he says thoughtfully. “Haven’t been there in a while. The ale is shit and the rooms worse, but it’s good if you want to have a brawl. Follow me.”

He turns off down a side road once they’re out of the tavern. Geralt casts his eyes heavenward briefly, praying for patience, before following behind Lambert and doing his best to tune him out.

* * *

Jaskier hears Triss running up the stairs from his room, and the fact that she’s running – on the stairs – is enough to convince him that whatever news she has is important. He jumps off of his bed and rushes down the hall, just catching his sister as she darts into their mother’s room.

“Mother!” she calls, glancing back at Jaskier as he comes up behind her. He can see there’s a piece of paper in her hand that she brandishes excitedly. “Here is a letter from our Uncle Borch! He says that Father is coming home today.”

Jaskier’s heart flips and Mrs. Pankratz actually stands up. “And does he bring Priscilla?” she asks, and the sight of Triss’ face falling is enough to warn them of what’s about to come.

“No,” she admits, and Jaskier’s heart sinks even as his mother flops back into her chair with a dramatic wail. “They have not yet discovered where she is,” Triss continues, fiddling with the letter in her hands. “Borch will continue his enquiries alone. Father has been gone too long.”

“He should stay if he does not bring poor Priscila with him!” their mother snaps, and Jaskier backs towards the door, not really wanting to linger during his mother’s hysterics. “But who will fight Voorhis and make him marry her if he comes away? Oh, Triss. Triss, what is to become of us?”

Triss glances over her shoulder, sending Jaskier a look of full betrayal when she sees how close he is to the exit. “I’ll be downstairs,” he mouths at her, sending her a wink as their mother starts sobbing again. Before Triss can protest, he pulls the door closed behind him, dropping his forehead against the wood. Inside, he can hear his sister’s soothing tones as his mother declares that she’ll faint again, and pushes himself away, heading down to the sitting room to wait.

Shani is nowhere to be found, and he’d left his lute upstairs – not the one with the blue flowers, he’s not had the heart to play that one yet – so he entertains himself by fiddling with Triss’ little bottles and jars, left on the table with the tools like she’d been interrupted when the letter had arrived. One of them smells vile when he opens it, and quickly pushes the stopper back in as his nose wrinkles. 

It takes almost half an hour before he hears footsteps padding down the stairs, turning in his seat just as Triss enters the sitting room, her weary expression replaced by a glare.

“ _Traitor_ ,” she hisses as she walks over, whacking him on the arm to make him vacate her seat. “Leaving me alone up there.”

“Not my fault,” Jaskier protests, dancing out of the way of her hands and collapsing into a different chair. “You were the one with the letter. And we both know I would have snapped if I’d stayed, and that would have set Mother off again, and then the whole thing would be worse.”

Triss levels him with a disappointed look, one that makes Jaskier fidget and look away, trying to escape the judgement in her eyes. At long last, she sighs and looks away,  
“You may be right,” she concedes, moving a few of her bottles around on the table in some sort of haphazard organisational sequence. “At any rate, the letter arrived an hour ago, so I do not think Father will be long in coming.”

“He won’t,” Jaskier agrees, risking looking her in the eye again and relaxing as he sees she’s no longer inducing guilt. “He’s been gone for almost two weeks. If they haven’t found her in that time…” he trails off, sighing raggedly.

“Don’t,” Triss snaps, fingers clenching around a jar that doesn’t look sturdy enough for her to safely maintain the tight grip. “Just don’t. We must remain positive.”

Jaskier considers this, wondering when his sister became more of an optimist than him. “I don’t know if I can,” he admits finally, looking down at his hands, willing himself not to start crying, _again_. He’s done enough of that in the last week, mostly whenever he’s alone in his room with the gifted lute in his lap. It’s not something he’s particularly proud of.

“We have to try,” Triss says, softly, but there’s force behind it. He’s still looking down, so the only thing that alerts him to her movements is the faint sound of her skirts swishing, and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and another under his chin, gently nudging him to look up. “Priscilla isn’t dead, and she’s not hurt. Voorhis is not a violent man, the likelihood is that this is just a passing fling, something to flaunt and then let go.”

“It’s revenge,” Jaskier mutters.

Triss frowns. “What was that?”

“Revenge,” he repeats, louder, so she can hear. “He knows that I know of his shortcomings, his history. He’s doing this as revenge, dragging our family’s name through the mud and with it, our reputation.”

“We’ve never had the best reputation, Jask,” Triss says quietly, running her hand over his hair soothingly. “You’re here, after all.”

The light teasing, fond and familiar, is enough to make him smile a bit. He sits up, rubbing his eyes and feeling the slight wetness that sits there. “You’re right,” he says finally, looking up at his sister’s smiling face. “I guess I will be writing that nasty song about him after all.”

“You do that,” Triss laughs, squeezing his shoulder encouragingly, opening her mouth to say something else when the faint sound of wheels on gravel cuts her off. She glances out the window, her face lifting even more and Jaskier’s with it when they see the carriage approaching. “Father’s home,” she says, and almost immediately they’re off through the house and out the front door, watching as the coach pulls up and their father steps down.

“Triss, Julian,” he greets wearily, glancing back at the footman who carries his trunk inside. “Not now,” he continues, reaching to pat them both quickly. “I’ll find you this evening. Just let me collect myself.” He pulls off his cloak, steeping inside the house and disappearing into his study, leaving his eldest children to look at each other warily, all traces of their good humour forgotten.

* * *

“It’s evening,” Jaskier says petulantly, looking away from the book he’s been staring at for a full hour without reading any of the words. “Father said he’d talk to us when it was evening.”

Triss sighs, setting down her book that Jaskier doubts she’d been paying attention to, either. “You’re right,” she says, and Shani looks up from her sewing. “Should I go and fetch him? He’s had nothing to eat since he came home.”

“Let me,” Jaskier decides, closing his book and setting it on the table. “You should take Mother her tea. Gods know you’re the only one she’s not snapping at.”

“She doesn’t snap at _me_ ,” Shani whines, and Triss rolls her eyes.

“That’s because you avoid her,” she says, standing up to head towards the door. “She can’t snap at you if you’re not there.”

Jaskier imitates her motions. “I don’t think that would stop her,” he mutters, cutting himself off from saying any more as the door opens before he can reach it, their father stepping into the room. He pauses, face grave, before sighing and sitting down in his chair.

“Well, Triss. Jaskier, Shani,” he greets, and they all return to their seats, various distractions forgotten.

“You look so tired, Father,” Triss says after a few seconds, leaning forward in her seat. “It must have been a dreadful time for you.”

Mr. Pankratz waves his hand dismissively. “Say nothing of that,” he says, staring at the fireplace. “Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.”

Triss sighs, and Jaskier feels his heart twist. “Oh, Father, you must not be so severe upon yourself,” he breathes, and it’s vastly hypocritical, given his own emotions. 

“No, Julian, let me – for once in my life – feel how much I have been to blame,” their father says, an undertone that’s as solid as steel in his voice. He nods to himself sharply. “I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.”

Jaskier swallows, tracing the lines on one hand with the other. “Do you still suppose them to be in Vizima?”

His father chuckles darkly. “Yes, I do,” he says, and he still sounds completely sure. “Where else can they be so well concealed?”

“And Priscilla always wanted to go to Vizima,” Shani pipes up, and Jaskier almost wants to smack her. Even with his and Triss’ worries, Shani had been the one who was _not_ surprised, who seemed to have known about the plan all along.

“She is happy, then,” Mr. Pankratz says, closing his eyes briefly. “And her residence there will probably be of some duration.” He leans forward, reaching for Jaskier’s hand, and he offers it willingly – any excuse to stop his own nervous twitching. “Julian, I bear you no ill will for being justified in your advice to me in May,” he says, smiling softly. “Which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind, I think.” 

He leans back again and Jaskier can’t bring himself to look him in the eye, feeling the surge of guilt rise in him again as he recalls the incident, remembers pleading with his father not to let Priscilla go. He thinks again, not for the first time – not by a long shot – that he really should have tried _harder_. 

The silence stretches on for a long moment, only broken when Triss rises. “I must take Mother her tea,” she says quietly, leaving the room with so little noise that Jaskier wonders how she does it. He’s never been able to be as silent as her when moving. He’s been reliably informed he even makes noise when he’s _asleep_.

“She still keeps her state above stairs, does she?” Mr. Pankratz huffs out a laugh. “Ha, good. It lends such an elegance to our misfortune. Another time, I’ll do the same. I’ll sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and I’ll give as much trouble as I can. Perhaps I may defer it till Shani runs away.”

Shani draws herself up imperiously. “ _I’m_ not going to run away, Papa,” she declares, and Jaskier can barely refrain from snorting. “If I should go to Novigrad, I would behave better than Priscilla.”

“You, go to Novigrad?” Mr. Pankratz repeats, and the incredulous note in his voice is overlaid with doubt and amusement. “I wouldn’t trust you as near as Oxenfurt, not for all the coin on the continent. No, Shani, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it.” He nods to himself again, and Jaskier can see his younger sister’s bottom lip start to tremble. “No officer is ever to enter my house again, or even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your siblings.”

Shani is fully crying, now, and Jaskier almost finds himself feeling sorry for her, but not quite.

“And you are never to stir out of doors until you can prove you’ve spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner,” Mr. Pankratz continues, then sighs. He stands up and walks over to Shani, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Well, well, don’t make yourself unhappy, my dear,” he says soothingly, and Shani looks up, hopeful. “If you’re a good girl for the next ten years, I’ll take you to a revue at the end of them.”

Jaskier snorts out a laugh as Shani wails.

* * *

The Hereford Inn is as rundown and seedy as Lambert had warned, and Geralt tries not to think about why the bench he’s sitting on is so sticky. He hopes that it’s simply because of spilt ale that was never cleaned up properly, instead of, well… any of the _other_ options, really. 

His nose wrinkles at the smell. He’d thought he’d gotten used to it, having tramped through the decidedly less-respectable streets of Vizima to get here, but the stench stays and permeates his clothes and skin. He’s been in worse places, but Lambert and Eskel are right – he’s gone soft. He doesn’t want to think about what _Jaskier_ would say if he saw him now, always clad in his bright colours and fresh face.

Ah, right. He’s here for a reason.

He glances around the room again, seeing Lambert – who’s completely in his element, laughing and drinking at the bar with some of the other patrons. His eyes are sharp, still, and Geralt knows that even as he pretends to be relaxed and unobservant, he’s scanning the place as well. He catches the other’s eye, and sees Lambert jerk his head slightly towards the far corner.

Geralt looks in the direction he indicated, and feels as he hands clench involuntarily at what he sees. At the table, mostly obscured by the dim lighting of the inn, sits Voorhis.

It’s been months since Geralt last saw him, back in Lettenhove in November, but the old feeling of rage still simmers inside of him at the sight of the man, fueled on a bit more by his own guilt and added anger on Jaskier’s behalf. Speaking of which, he inspects the rest of the table, eyes narrowing as his gaze lands on the other occupant. 

Jaskier’s youngest sister looks miserable, but it appears to be more at their surroundings than at her situation. She’s wearing a simple white dress, and Geralt casts a cursory glance at her visible skin, checking for any obvious injury. He doesn’t think that Voorhis – as awful as he is – is _that_ kind of man, but better to be safe than sorry. He doesn’t find anything, though, much to his satisfaction, and briefly entertains the notion that they’ll be able to get her out of here with nothing more than a slight stain to her reputation.

He watches as the girl seems to whine something, then slides her hand down over the inside of Voorhis’ thigh, heading to the vee of his legs. Geralt swallows. Apparently, they’ll not be getting her out the same as ever.

It doesn’t do to dwell on what the implications of that are, so instead Geralt continues to watch, waiting for either of them to notice him. It doesn’t seem like Voorhis will, snapping something at Priscilla and pushing her hand away as she pouts, draping herself against his side. Maybe, Geralt thinks, watching her excitable features gaze at her companion adoringly, maybe they’ll get her out with a stain on her reputation _and_ a new husband. It would certainly solve the whole problem, though he’d have to actually ask the girl if she _wants_ to marry Voorhis first. At the very least it would be a better alternative than to let them stay together, still unmarried. Jaskier would never even look at him again if he allowed that.

Priscilla seems to be bored with just staying still, and he watches as her gaze sweeps over the room, waiting until she sees him and does a double take. He stares back, calmly, watching as she giggles and says something to Voorhis, who snaps back. Priscilla looks affronted, and he can just make out her lips forming the sounds of his name. Voorhis freezes, then turns, meeting Geralt’s gaze as his eyes go wide.

Geralt grins.

* * *

The first berries of August are just starting to ripen, and Jaskier and Triss go out into the garden to collect them, desperate for any sort of distraction. Priscilla has been gone for over three weeks, now, and personally he’s losing faith that she’ll be found anytime soon. He’s sure that she’ll show up one day without any regard for the consequences of her actions. He’s staring contemplatively at a single berry between his fingers when he hears Triss speak.

“Yes, what is it?” she asks, and he glances up to see their housekeeper standing by, wringing her hands nervously. “Is Mrs. Pankratz asking for one of us?”

“Oh, no, Ma’am,” the housekeeper assures them, and that’s good, at least they won’t be called up to deal with their mother’s hysterics right now. “I beg your pardon, but… did you know an express came for your father? From your uncle?”

Jaskier looks up sharply. “When did it come?”

“About half an hour ago, sir. You father is in the grove – “ she gets out, but before she can finish both Jaskier and Triss have scrambled to their feet, leaving behind a scattering of berries and leaves behind them as they race off. Up ahead, he can see his father pacing by one of the groves, envelope in his hand.

“Well, Julian,” he says as soon as they reach him, both a little out of breath.

“Father… what news?” Jaskier gasps, leaning on one of the trees, panting. “What news have you heard from our uncle?”

“Yes, yes, I’ve had a letter from him,” Mr. Pankratz says, brandishing it like a trophy. 

Triss sighs. “What does… what news does it bring? Good or bad?”

Their father chuckles. “What is there of good to be expected?” He shakes his head a little, then hands Jaskier the letter. “Perhaps you would like to read it yourself.” Jaskier takes it, sitting down on the bench and opening the letter as Triss comes to huddle beside him and see for herself. “Read it aloud, Julian,” their father urges, still pacing. “I hardly know what to make of it myself.”

“My dear brother, at last I am able to send tidings of my niece and Mr. Voorhis,” Jaskier reads, smiling despite himself. “I have seen them both.”

“It is as I always hoped!” Triss exclaims happily. “They are married!”

Jaskier’s smile fades as he scans the next line. “They are not married,” he continues, and Triss’ face drops. “Nor can I find there was any intention of being so, but if you are willing to perform the engagements I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will not be long before they are.” He looks at his father with a sense of growing dread. “What engagements?” he asks, unsure of whether he wants to know the answer or not.

Mr. Pankratz waves a hand. “Read on.”

“All that is required of you is to assure your daughter her equal share of five thousand crowns she will inherit on your death, and also allow her during your life… one hundred per annum.” Jaskier blinks. “So little? What about Voorhis’ debts?”

“Read on,” his father says again.

“You will easily comprehend Mr. Voorhis’ circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be,” he reads, and Triss smiles while a small sense of hope beams in his chest. “I am happy to say there will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged to settle on my niece.” Jaskier finishes the sentence, surprised, and looks up. “I cannot believe it.”

Mr. Pankratz huffs. “Read _on_ , Julian.”

“We have judged it best that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will approve,” he continues, and feels Triss clutch his arm.

“Oh, poor Shani,” she laughs. “She’ll be so disappointed not to be a bridesmaid.”

“Send back your answer as soon as you can, and be sure to write explicitly as to the financial settlement. Yours, et cetera.” He takes a deep breath, setting the letter down beside him on the bench. “How is it possible he will marry her for so little?”

Triss hums thoughtfully. “He must not be as undeserving as we thought,” she muses. “He must truly be in love with her, I think.”

“You think that, Triss, if it gives you comfort,” their father says, and it’s not harsh, but the words cut through both of them anyways.

Jaskier frowns. “Have you answered the letter?”

“No.” Mr. Pankratz shakes his head. “But I must, and soon.”

“And they must marry,” Jaskier realises, standing up and handing the letter back. “Yet, he is _such_ a man.”

“Yes, yes, they must marry.” His father waves a hand. “There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things I very much want to know.” He pauses, looking away towards the house. “One is, how much money your uncle laid down to bring this about. And the other… how am I _ever_ to repay him?” He shakes his head again, sighing, before folding the letter back up and placing it in his pocket, clasping his hands behind his back and walking slowly towards the house.

Jaskier exhales slowly, collapsing back onto the bench next to his sister. “I wish I had never spoken a word of this whole affair to Sir Geralt,” he says as soon as their father is out of earshot.

“Dear Jask, please do not distress yourself,” Triss soothes, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and running her hand down his back. “I’m sure that Sir Geralt will respect your confidence.”

“I’m sure he will,” Jaskier laughs, self-deprecatingly, even as his chest seizes. “That is not what distresses me.”

Triss frowns. “What, then?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier breathes out, not willing to share every single one of the doubts and fears that had been running through his mind for the past two weeks. “How he must be congratulating himself on his escape. How he must despise me now.”

“But, Jask, you never sought his love, nor welcomed it when he offered it,” she says softly, placating, though there’s a smile on her face that belies how she truly feels on the matter. “If he has withdrawn his high opinion of you now, why should you care?”

Jaskier sighs in frustration, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he repeats himself, blinking. “I can’t explain it. I know I shall probably never see him again.” He looks away, unable to face his sister any longer. “I cannot _bear_ to think that he is alive in the world… and thinking ill of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe one day these boys will figure out how to communicate...


	23. Chapter 23

Their mother has been giggling for almost a full hour now, ever since Triss and Jaskier had given her the news about the letter from yesterday. They’d waited out the morning before coming to tell her, wanting to put off the inevitable dramatic behaviour that would erupt as soon as she heard. Jaskier thinks, as he listens to his mother’s explanations, that even Triss’ patience must be wearing thin.

“Oh, I knew it would all come out right in the end,” the woman gushes, and Jaskier refrains from pointing out that, _actually_ , she’d been exceedingly negative about the situation. “Oh, my dear, _dear_ Priscilla. She will be married. My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be, I knew he would manage everything. Oh!” She gasps, suddenly looking worried. “The clothes!”

Jaskier stifles a sigh, sitting down on the chair at his mother’s vanity. Normally, he’d understand her concern for attire – gods know _he’s_ vain enough about his appearance – but he has a feeling that he knows where this specific bout of worry is leading. 

“And, of course, she _must_ be married from Lettenhove,” his mother continues, and Jaskier bites his tongue to keep from snapping as his fears are confirmed. “This is all nonsense about her being married from Vizima. She must be married in the Lettenhove temple where all her friends can see her.”

“No, mother, that is not possible,” Jaskier tries to tell her, running a hand down his face in exasperation. If it weren’t for his father, he’d wonder where he and Triss got their sensibilities from. “You must see that.”

Mrs. Pankratz glares at him, her good humour forgotten. “I do not see that, why should I see that?” she demands, crossing her arms in a tiff. “Why should that be?”

“Because she has been living with Mr. Voorhis in Vizima,” Jaskier tries again, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes tightly. “If she were to arrive home unmarried _still_ …”

“Oh, well, I suppose it must be, if you put it like that,” his mother huffs, and Jaskier opens his eyes to see her with her arms still folded across her chest and an unhappy scowl on her face. “But it is all very vexing,” she complains. “And your uncle has been most high-handed. I don’t see why he should take so much upon him.”

Triss sighs. “Mother, we are greatly indebted to Uncle Borch.”

“He must have laid out a great deal of money to pay off Mr. Voorhis’ debts,” Jaskier adds bitterly, the words like ash in his mouth as he remembers that face. “More than we can _ever_ repay.”

“And why should he not?” his mother snaps. “Who else should lay out money but her own uncle?”

“Mother!” Jaskier snaps back, wanting to leave the room entirely at this point. Next to him, Triss, looks just as distressed.

Mrs. Pankratz doesn’t appear to notice her children’s unease, instead clapping her hands together and smiling brightly. “Oh, well, I am so happy,” she exclaims, giggling to herself. “A daughter married, and only just sixteen! Mrs. Voorhis. Ooh, how well that sounds. Oh, but th-the wedding clothes!” She breathes in sharply, turning to her son. “Julian, my dear, go down to your father and ask how much he will give her.”

Shooting a look at Triss, who again looks resigned – it’s an expression she’s been wearing rather frequently, lately, and he really hopes that she won’t have to soon – he takes the excuse to leave, pushing himself off of his chair and hurrying out of the room, feeling the tension drain out of his figure as he rushes down the stairs. He’ll go find his father, yes, but there’s no way he’s going to ask about _wedding clothes_. If Priscilla is so desperate to get married that she pulls off this sort of stunt, she can damn well pay for her own dress.

He steps into his father’s study, glancing over to where the man is standing facing the window, before a shriek from upstairs followed by his mother’s enthusiastic yelling resonates through the room.

“Father,” he says, calling the attention onto him as the man turns, hands clasped behind his back and the same resigned look on his face as Triss. 

“Shut the door, Julian,” he says wearily, coming to perch at the end of his desk and watching Jaskier shut off the room, leaning against the door when he’s done. His mother can still be heard, faintly, but the sounds are more of less muffled, now. “Someone, at least, finds pleasure in these events.” He gives a wry smile.

Jaskier pushes himself off of the door, irritably fiddling with the edge of his cuffs. “But,” he starts, examining the stitching rather than look his father in the eye, “considering what we thought only a few days ago, it’s not so bad, is it?” He pauses, remembering his father’s words from the day before. “Do you… do you think my uncle had to pay out a great deal of money?”

“I do,” his father confirms, and his face is grave. “Voorhis is a fool if he takes her with a crown less than ten thousand.”

Jaskier’s mind stutters to a halt.

He gapes, blinking, as he tries to wrap his head around the number. His mouth opens and closes a few times with no sound coming out before he swallows, steeling himself. “ _Ten thousand crowns_ ,” he breathes, scarce able to comprehend it. “Gods forbid. How is _half_ such a sum to be repaid?”

“I wish I had laid by an annual sum to bribe worthless young men to marry my children, but I have not, I confess,” Mr. Pankratz says, sitting down heavily in his chair. “The reason was, of course, that I did not intend to be indebted to my brother.” He runs a hand down his face. “Triss would have inherited the estate, no part of which would be entailed away: so, providing for my widow and any other children. By the time I had abandoned hope of seeking financial aid elsewhere, my brother had stepped in and now the estate will go to his son instead, the _lovely_ Mr. Ferrant.”

Jaskier suppresses a shudder at the name, remembering when he could have solved the entire issue by marrying the man. He’s glad he hadn’t, but somewhere in the back of his mind there’s still a niggling sense of guilt. “You could not have foreseen this, Father,” he says instead, shaking his head and pushing down his own problems to be addressed at a later time. 

“I should have taken better care of you all,” his father sighs, reaching to pour himself a drink from his decanter. “The satisfaction of prevailing upon one of the most worthless young men in Britain might then have rested in its proper place. As it is, the thing is done with extraordinary little inconvenience to myself.” He takes a sip of his drink. “When you take into account what I shall save on Priscilla’s board and pocket allowance, I’m scarcely ten crowns a year worse off. I’m heartily ashamed of myself, Jaskier. But don’t despair. It will pass.”

Jaskier pours himself a drink of his own, deciding to stay quiet for the time being.

“And no doubt, more quickly than it should,” Mr. Pankratz finishes, draining the last of his drink and reaching for one of the letters spread out over his desk. “I have received this from your uncle,” he explains, setting his glass down and clearing his throat before he begins to read. “Mr. Voorhis is to resign from the militia and go into a northern regiment. Happily, there are still some among his former friends who are willing to assist him in purchasing a commission.”

Taking a sip of his drink, Jaskier waits patiently, still worried despite knowing that there’s nothing really that can be _worse_ , at this point.

“I have written to General Vilgefortz to request that he will satisfy Mr. Voorhis’ creditors in Novigrad, for which I have pledged myself,” he continues. “Perhaps you will be so good as to do the same for his creditors in Lettenhove, of whom I enclose a list…” he pauses, holding up another piece of paper. Jaskier glances at it, further anger at Voorhis growing as he sees the length of it. “…according to his information. I hope, at least, he has not deceived us.”

“Let us all hope so,” Jaskier mutters.

“As soon as they are married, they will journey directly to join his regiment in Posada, unless they are invited first to Lettenhove.” Mr. Pankratz finishes, setting the letter down and reaching to pour himself another drink. “They will be invited,” he says eventually, replacing the decanter onto its tray. “But only once. After that, rest assured, Mr. and Mrs. Voorhis will never be welcome here.”

* * *

Borch and his wife watch him warily when he arrives, even after embracing Priscilla tightly and Myrgta ushering her away. It’s not _distrust_ , exactly, it’s more curiosity and confusion, especially since Voorhis did not come with them.

“Voorhis is with a friend of mine,” Geralt explains shortly, handing his coat off to the servant who comes to collect it. He thinks back to when he last saw the man only an hour ago, scowling darkly and with the faint beginnings of a black eye starting to show. Lambert had been annoyed that he wasn’t the one who got to get a punch in, but then again, Geralt hadn’t told him to refrain if the man did anything foolish while he was away. He secretly hopes he _does_. “I’ll explain everything,” he says to Borch, and the man nods curtly.

“Very well,” he agrees, and beckons Geralt down the hall and into a study, where he takes a seat. Myrgta comes in a second later, closing the door behind her and going to sit next to her husband, watching their guest expectantly.

“I discovered Mr. Voorhis living with your niece at an inn on Hardwick Street,” Geralt begins, and doesn’t miss the way Myrgta’s fingers clench in her skirt just a little bit tighter. “He has agreed to marry her with some…” he pauses, searching for the right word, “… _persuasion_. I would have preferred it if I could have retrieved your niece without this outcome, but, well.”

“The situation had already progressed a bit far,” Myrgta finishes for him, her knuckles white. “A marriage is the best we could have hoped for, I believe, in this scenario.” There’s a short silence after her words, that lingers until Borch leans forward in his seat.

“And you, Sir Geralt?” he asks, and his expression is so similar to Jaskier’s calculating look that it takes him aback for a moment. “What do you get out of this?”

Geralt blinks. “Nothing,” he says honestly. “Nothing except a chance to lay my own demons to rest, and to help a… a friend.” He swallows, the word not sitting quite right in his mouth. He doesn’t want Jaskier to be a _friend_ , he wants him to be so much _more_ than that. “I have given Mr. Voorhis a considerable sum of money to assist in establishing a place in the world for him and your niece. I will take care of the rest, if you’ll be so kind as to allow me.”

Borch considers him. “We cannot – “

“I must be allowed to insist on this,” Geralt says, staring the man in front of him down. He’s held a rather large bit of respect for him ever since he met him at Kaer Morhen in July, and the fact that Jaskier seems to like him more than most of the rest of his family certainly encourages him more. “The fault is mine, and so must the remedy be. It was through my mistaken pride, my _reserve_ , that Mr. Voorhis’ character has not been made known to the world. Had I not thought it beneath me to lay my private actions open to the world, his character would have been exposed, and this elopement could never have taken place.”

“Sir Geralt, I really believe you take too much upon yourself,” Myrgta protests, but her eyes are kind and approving.

“Hmm.” He watches her, sees the way her approval includes his attentions to Jaskier, notices how her eyes are sharp and understanding. “I must insist on this, madam,” he says, mostly to assure her that what she’s offering him does not go unnoticed. “I assure you, in this matter, argument is fruitless.” He stands up and extends a hand. “The responsibility is mine, and I must have it. I shall not give way.”

Borch shares a silent conversation with his wife, then sighs, and reaches to shake Geralt’s hand.

* * *

The sight of a carriage on the road to Lettenhove and subsequently to their house has never been so unwelcome, Jaskier thinks, watching as the rest of his family regards the coach rolling down the path. His mother and Shani are the only ones receiving it with any excitement, even the servants are dour-faced as they dutifully stand by to collect bags and trunks. His father has done his best to look carefully neutral, but surprisingly, Triss glares with him instead of her usual reserve.

“Gods!” comes Priscilla’s voice, already jumping out of the carriage before it comes to a full stop. “It seems an age since we were at Lettenhove. And here you all are, just the same.”

Jaskier has to resist the urge to wipe that smug grin off of her face as his mother rushes forwards. “Oh, my dear Priscilla!” she cries, wrapping her arms around her youngest daughter. “At last! Oh, I do believe you’ve grown! How we’ve missed you.”

The two of them giggle and Shani runs to join them, while Jaskier turns his gaze away to search out the other arrival, his eyes falling on Voorhis as he steps out of the coach, the same easy manner and pleasant expression disguising his true nature. 

“We’ve been far too merry to miss any of you,” Priscilla laughs, entirely too delighted as she pulls Voorhis forward and links an arm through the crook of his. “Well, here we are. Haven’t I caught myself a handsome husband?”

“Indeed, you have, my love,” Mrs. Pankratz beams, and Jaskier schools his expression into a hopefully less bitter one as he takes Voorhis in fully, no longer clad in regimentals. 

He frowns a bit as he finally rests his gaze on the man’s face, noting the slight shadows and discolouration surrounding his left eye, almost as if there had been a significant bruise there recently. It couldn’t have been Borch, he knows his uncle too well to believe him capable of beating a man, and with no other explanation decides to assume it was from an unrelated incident. He can’t quite deny the temptation is presents, wanting to punch the man and bring the full black eye back.

“You are very welcome, sir,” his mother simpers, while behind her, her husband seems most heartily to disagree.

“You are all goodness and kindness, Ma’am, as always,” Voorhis smiles, either not noticing or not caring about the murderous looks being sent his way by the others.

Mr. Pankratz clears his throat. “Well, shall we go in?” He holds out a hand and his wife takes it, heading into the house with Triss behind them when Priscilla stops her.

“No, Triss, I take your place now,” she says smugly, and Jaskier grits his teeth in a hard effort not to snap at her. “You must go lower, because I am a married woman.” She smirks, looking back over her shoulder as Voorhis leads her inside. “Mrs. Voorhis. Gods, how droll that sounds!”

She laughs loudly and Jaskier starts forward, halting when he feels Triss’ hand on his shoulder. “Leave it, Jask,” she warns, pulling him to fall into step with her as they progress slowly, letting Shani dart ahead. “They’re be gone in a week. It’s not worth it.”

“It _is_ ,” Jaskier retorts, but the ire in his voice isn’t directed at her, and she knows that, sighing softly.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she concedes, guiding him towards the stairs instead of going to join the others in the sitting room. “Just don’t do anything yet. Wait until you’re alone, and _then_ go for it.” She sends him a grin, and all of a sudden Jaskier remembers where he got his nasty streak from.

* * *

He doesn’t get an opportunity alone with Mr. Voorhis for the first five days, Triss keeping him away from the others and his father possibly helping, and even now, as the four siblings walk without the supervision of their parents, Voorhis is riding in the field and too far removed for Jaskier to knock his lights out if he wanted to. And fuck, he _really_ wants to.

“How do you like my husband, Jaskier?” Priscilla prods, and it’s these sorts of gloating taunts that have made it really hard for Jaskier to rein in his temper the past few days. “I believe you envy me. Was he not a favourite of yours, once?”

Jaskier swallows hard, plastering a fake smile onto his face. “Not at all, I assure you.”

“What a pity we didn’t all go to Novigrad,” she continues, ignoring him. “I could have got spouses for all my siblings.”

Shani laughs, but he sees Triss grimace. “Thank you for my part of the favour, but no,” she says, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “I don’t particularly like your way of getting spouses.”

“Isn’t my husband a fine horseman? General Vilgefortz himself said he has as good a seat as any officer in the regiment,” Priscilla says, giggling as the man takes a small jump. Jaskier looks heavenward, trying to keep himself in check. If Priscilla didn’t listen to them before – well, now it’s gotten entirely out of hand. “I wished he could wear his red coat at the wedding and have a guard of honour with their sabres drawn,” she goes on. “But the officers could not be spared from their duties. And in the end, there was no one there but my aunt and uncle and Sir Geralt.”

Jaskier stops so abruptly that Triss bumps into him, but he doesn’t look back at her, gaping at his youngest sister. “Sir Geralt?” he rasps, and Shani and Priscilla stop walking to turn to him curiously. “ _Sir Geralt_ was at your wedding?”

“Oh, yes.” Priscilla nods, apparently not picking up on her brother’s impending heart attack. “For someone had to come with Voorhis and be groomsman. I’d much rather it had been Devlin or one of our other friends, but – “ she gasps, putting her hands over her mouth. “Oh, gods, I forgot! I wasn’t to say a word. And I promised him so faithfully! What will Voorhis say now?” She giggles, still not noting the fact that her brother is gaping at her rather embarrassingly. “It was _supposed_ to be a secret!”

Triss has a hand on Jaskier’s arm that he can feel faintly, and he’s pretty sure it’s the only thing keeping him in the present moment as Voorhis gallops past them again, drawing another round of giggles from his younger sisters.

“Priscilla,” he says slowly, once his mind has finally caught up to him. “I’m going to need you to tell me _everything_.”

She does.

It’s not all the specifics, and there are parts missing, but Jaskier knows Priscilla doesn’t pay full attention at the best of times, and if they were deliberately keeping things from her, he knows she’s unlikely to have heard anything else. He’s able to piece most of it together, however, and comes away with the startling knowledge that _Sir Geralt_ was the one to pay Voorhis off. Priscilla hadn’t said it in so many words, nor seemed to have known the exact number, but Jaskier has heard enough from his father to know that it’s _high_. And definitely a sum that can never be repaid.

The worst part of it is the sudden realisation that Sir Geralt had not done it for the recognition.

It would have been easier if he had demanded the credit, had lauded his good deed to the entire continent, but he hadn’t, and that’s what sticks with Jaskier. He can understand someone doing something charitable because of the boost in reputation, but to do it with no reward – _and_ to have his involvement sworn to secrecy – is unfathomable. Again, Jaskier is left thinking that he maybe shouldn’t have turned the man down all those months ago.

He skips dinner and spends the rest of the evening in a daze, settling in for bed and waking up feeling as though he hadn’t slept at all. He grabs breakfast from the kitchen and steals away to the garden, to the little grove and the stone bench where he can think in peace.

Last night he’d decided that Sir Geralt did _not _do it to encourage Jaskier to reconsider his marriage proposal, there’s no way the man could even know that Jaskier knows his secret and he hadn’t made any move towards resuming his attentions. As such, Jaskier is left with the burden of knowing that Geralt is probably the best man he’s ever met – and Jaskier threw his own best chance at happiness away.__

____

A branch snaps under someone’s foot and he looks up, taking in the sights of Voorhis approaching, a slightly nervously smile on his face. All at once the emotions he’s been grappling with overtake him, the anger at Voorhis and his own growing despair at ruining his own future.

____

“I’m afraid I’m interrupting your solitary reverie,” the man says, in that tone that Jaskier used to like and has grown to hate.

____

“You are indeed,” Jaskier says, keeping a lid on the eruption waiting to happen for the time being. “But it doesn’t follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.”

____

“It would be sorry if it were,” Voorhis chuckles. “You and I were always good friends.”

____

Jaskier smiles thinly. “True.”

____

“Then…” the man glances around, before holding out his arm. “Shall we take a turn together… _brother_?”

____

“Why not,” Jaskier says, not accepting the man’s arm out of irritation for the term, walking a few paces in silence. Best he let him speak for now, that way he can parse how best to tear him apart. Voorhis stays quiet a few moments longer, slightly tense but seemingly unaware of his company’s inner turmoil. _Good_ , Jaskier thinks. Let him feel secure.

____

“I was surprised to see Geralt in town last month,” Voorhis says eventually, glancing over. Jaskier keeps his expression steady. “We… uh, we passed each other several times. I wonder what he could be doing there?” The slight upturn at the end of the sentence, the careful phrasing – his twists and turns and subtle conniving are so obvious now that Jaskier feels like an idiot for missing them for so long.

____

“Perhaps preparing for a wedding,” he muses, and Voorhis looks up sharply. “There are so many of them happening in the summer months.”

____

Voorhis nods, letting out a relieved breath that would have gone unnoticed had Jaskier not been looking for it. “Yes, yes, perhaps,” he mutters, still a bit rattled.

____

“It must have been something _particular_ to take him there at this time of year,” Jaskier says, taking advantage of the man’s nerves.

____

“Undoubtedly,” Voorhis hurries to agree, and it’s obvious he’s trying to think of a way to regain his control of the conversation. “Did you see him while you were at Hertch? I thought I understood from your aunt and uncle that you had.”

____

“Yes, he introduced us to his ward,” Jaskier confirms, stepping onto the path around the back of the grove, carefully chosen to take them out of sight of the house. He’s not sure where the conversation is heading, but he remembers what Triss said about doing nothing until they’re alone.

____

Voorhis nods. “Did you like her?”

____

His tone is careful, and Jaskier recognises the same technique he employed when he had asked about Eskel in the late spring. “Yes,” he says, the same way he had then, too. “I did like her very much, indeed.”

____

“Well.” Voorhis’ smile has turned pained. “I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this last year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I’m glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out well.”

____

“I daresay she will.” The path turns from stone to dirt under their feet. “She’s got over the most _trying_ age.”

____

“Did you go by the village of Kimpton?”

____

Jaskier frowns at the sudden change in topic. “I don’t recollect that we – “

____

“Oh, I only mention it because it was the living I should have had,” Voorhis interrupts, and Jaskier bristles, coming to a halt. They’re far enough away and hidden by trees that if he does do anything, no one will be able to see.

____

“And how should you have liked working in a temple?” he presses, letting his arms hang by his sides.

____

Voorhis smiles wryly. “Exceedingly well.”

____

Jaskier has had enough. “I did hear that there was a time when the religious sector was not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present,” he snaps, tired of the lies he’s been fed. “That you actually declared your resolution of never taking orders and were compensated accordingly.”

____

Voorhis looks away, and Jaskier takes that opening to strike.

____

“That was for Priscilla,” he says calmly, stepping forward and punching the man again even as he staggers back. “ _That_ was for Ciri. And _this_ – “ he swings, and this time Voorhis is knocked to the ground, sprawled over the dirt and raising a hand to block another blow, blood dripping from his nose. “ – is for me.” Jaskier finishes, looking down at the man on the ground with contempt. “Hopefully this will teach you something of a lesson.”

____

Voorhis stares up at him, blood dribbling down onto his shirt, and Jaskier is pleased to see the gleam of fear shining in his eyes.

____

“Oh, come, Mr. Voorhis,” he laughs, taking far too much delight in the meagre revenge he has just doled out. “We are _brothers_ , you know. Let us not quarrel about the past.”

____

He turns on his heel to head back towards the house, relishing the image of Voorhis laying prone and rightly scared on the ground behind him.

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the endgame now, folks! You may have also noticed that I upped the chapter count - this is because I misjudged the last chapter and decided to split it into two, and I've added an epilogue, but that will be uploaded the same time as the final chapter, so don't worry! That means there are four parts and three updates to go - less than a week until it's all done!


	24. Chapter 24

“Jask!”

When Shani hurtles into his room at a completely unreasonable hour of the morning, Jaskier barely has time to sit up before she all but throws herself onto the bed beside him. She’s radiating excitement, practically vibrating with it, at he blinks blearily up at her.

“Sha…?” he slurs, voice hoarse as he pushes hair from his eyes, looking around the room that’s still quite dark. His curtains are drawn, though, so it may just be because of that. “’S happening?”

“It’s Lady Yennefer,” Shani says, bouncing atop the blankets in her enthusiasm. “She’s back! Ellen came to tell me just this past half hour. She’s back!”

It takes a minute for Jaskier to fully comprehend her words, but as soon as he does, he’s startling into a sitting position, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Yennefer,” he repeats, staring at her and suddenly wide awake. “Yennefer is _back_?”

“Yes!” Shani nods, hair bobbing wildly. She’s dressed, he sees, and remembers that all of his sisters are much more suited to mornings than him. “She came back yesterday, and brought her servants and a shooting party. It’s the talk of the town!”

“The talk of the town at this hour?” Jaskier snorts, though he can well believe it. He reaches towards his bedside table to grab his discarded shirt from the night before, pulling it over his head with a groan as his tired muscles stretch. 

Shani nods some more, distractedly playing with the stitching of the coverings under her fingers as Jaskier pulls himself out of bed. “Of course,” she responds, and he can hear the ‘ _you idiot_ ’ that’s left unsaid. He shoots her a look through the mirror atop his vanity, but she’s not looking at him, instead over towards the far wall and his dresser. “The most eligible bachelorette coming back nearly a full year after she left is the most exciting thing to happen for miles. What’s that?”

Jaskier looks away from where he’s pulling on a new pair of breeches, his hands freezing on the buttons as he follows his sister’s gaze, landing on the – beautiful, shiny, and entirely too expensive for him to have bought himself – lute. Geralt’s lute.

Well, not _Geralt’s_ , exactly – but it’s the only thing from the man that Jaskier has, other than that one letter he had written in the spring, and he’s sure as hell not going to get rid of either item anytime soon.

“It’s a lute,” he says dumbly, hands still frozen, a marked contradiction to the rapid pounding of his heart as he looks at the polished wood. It’s his, and he knows that his sister isn’t the best at keeping her mouth shut. He doesn’t mind people knowing he has it, but, _well_. He doesn’t want to have to explain it, when he still doesn’t entirely understand it himself.

Shani rolls her eyes. “I can see that,” she says, getting up off of the bed to walk over, prodding at it carefully. Jaskier lets out a strangled sound at that and his sister halts her motions, looking over in surprise. “Am I not allowed to touch it?”

“Um,” is all that Jaskier manages to say, still completely motionless, eyes wide. The answer is _no_ , she’s _not_ allowed to touch it, but that would just lead to more questions that he _really_ doesn’t want to answer. He’s not even played the thing yet, just pathetically traced the grain of the wood and the blue paint of the flowers and cried over it like a baby. “You can touch it,” he decides eventually, hoping that his voice isn’t as strained as he thinks it is.

His sister considers him, then slowly withdraws her hand. “That’s alright,” she says, and he wonders if the strange inflection in her tone is just his imagination. “You should go talk to Triss,” Shani continues, walking towards the door without a glance back at the lute. “You’re a much better option to break the news than I. Besides,” she giggles, “I’ve got to go into town with Ellen, spread the word!” 

“Alright,” Jaskier agrees, and finds he can move again, finishing with his trousers as quickly as possible. He pauses, thinking. “Wait, spread the word?” he repeats, his waistcoat hanging off of one arm. “You just said it’s the talk of the town!”

“Well, yes.” Shani rolls her eyes. “But come _on_. We have to talk to people, see if there’s anything else. Maybe the shooting party will go up the ridge where we can see them!” She claps her hands together in delight, lingering in the doorway. “Triss is in the stillroom, by the way. And it’s well past ten, you should have long been up by now!”

“I know,” Jaskier grumbles, watching as she darts out the door, her footsteps receding down the stairs. His waistcoat is still only half on so he finishes pulling his other arm through it, doing up the buttons on the front. Against his better judgement his eyes flicker over to the dresser as he passes, tearing his gaze away to throw open the curtains instead of dwell on it. He’s not sure what Shani is going to do about it, but somehow, he thinks that maybe she won’t do anything. Miracles do happen.

The sun is already up and shining brightly, indicative of the fact that Jaskier really had slept in as much as his sister had said. It’s not unusual, he admits to himself as he clambers down the stairs, but of course it had to be on a morning that Shani would take it upon herself to burst in and wake him up. He’s wide awake, now, but still reeling from the realisation that Yennefer is back. The implications are swirling in his mind, but he can wait to address them until after he’s shared the news.

Triss seems to take it surprisingly well, watching carefully from across the table where she’d immediately set her brother to work the second he stepped foot inside the stillroom. At long last, she breathes out a heavy sigh.

“No, I do assure you, this news does not affect me,” she says, and Jaskier makes a disbelieving noise, having caught the gleam of hope in her eye when he had mentioned Yennefer’s name. “Truly, Jask,” she denies. “I am glad of one thing – that she does not bring any retinue. If it is merely a shooting party, we shall not see her often. Not that I’m afraid of myself; but I dread other people’s remarks, Jaskier.”

“Then I shall venture none,” Jaskier grins, trying to catch his sister’s eye. “However sorely I am tempted.”

Triss cracks a smile at that, shaking her head.

“After all, it is hard that the poor woman can’t come to a house she’s legally rented without raising all this speculation,” he teases, and Triss finally looks at him.

“That is just what I think.”

Jaskier raises a brow. “Then we shall leave her to herself.”

Triss nods. “Yes,” she agrees, then shoots Jaskier a glare when he dares to laugh. “Stop it, Jask.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re inferring,” he sniffs, then laughs again.

* * *

Three days later he wakes late again, but with good reason. There’s still a faint ringing in his head and his mouth is completely dry, a bitter taste sitting atop his tongue. He swallows in distaste, wincing at the light pouring in from his opened curtains. The maid has already been in, then.

Triss, he’s sure, is already awake and fresh-faced, likely even without a headache. Jaskier tries to hate her for her consistent lack of a hangover, but can’t quite find it in himself. It’s his own fault, drinking so much, and he knows it – but in his defense his mother would just not shut up. All she’s been doing recently is complain that Lady Yennefer had not yet come to call, and he just knows that the second he goes downstairs he’ll have to hear it again.

On the other hand, the taste really is disgusting, and even if he has to face his smug sister and whining mother the cup of tea he _knows_ will be waiting for him will be worth it.

That thought in mind he clambers out of bed, gracelessly, and pulls on the first outfit he can scrounge together. It’s not one of his best, but the tan trousers and green waistcoat look fine together, and the rumpled shirt isn’t _too_ bad. He won’t be leaving the house anyway if he can help it, he’ll probably just hole up with Triss somewhere, or nap. Actually, he thinks as he descends the stairs, a nap sounds quite nice, never mind the fact that he’s only just woken up.

The sitting room is full, as he expected it to be, but Shani and his father only look up in amusement as he sidles past them towards the table. His hair is unbrushed, he realises, and pushes his fingers through it to somewhat tame it as he drops into his seat, reaching over his lute, his normal one – he forgot to put that away last night – for the teapot immediately.

“Someone had a late night,” Triss teases, and he glares at her over the rim of his cup, though it’s somewhat mellowed by the way he sighs in delight at the sensation of the hot liquid hitting his tongue.

“You did too, if I remember correctly,” he retorts weakly, and it’s a testament to his hangover that he’s unable to think of anything else.

Triss chuckles. “Yes, but I didn’t drink nearly as much as you,” she points out, and it’s so tempting to glare at her again, so he does. She just laughs more. “You were really out of it. Started crying at one point, I believe. Said you should have accepted Sir – “

“And that’s _quite_ enough of that, I think,” Jaskier hastily interrupts, lifting his cup to cover how his cheeks have flushed bright red. He’s an emotional drunk, he knows, but moping about his feelings for Sir Geralt is a new low, albeit one that could have been expected. Looking away from Triss, he turns his attentions to the rest of the room – any excuse to avoid further teasing.

“ _Three days_ she has been in the neighbourhood, and still she shuns us,” his mother is lamenting, and Jaskier takes another sip of his tea to disguise his sigh. Of course, she’s _still_ on about Lady Yennefer – and it’s not even noon, so there’s no excuse for him to start drinking again to avoid the topic. “I say it’s all your father’s fault,” she continues. “He would not do his duty and call, so you shall all die old maids. We shall be turned out by Mr. Ferrant and his wife to starve in the hedgerows.”

Shani frowns, standing to walk over to the window. Jaskier watches her go, and she shoots him a similar exasperated look to the one he’s wearing.

“You promised me last year that if I went to see her, she’d marry one of my children,” Mr. Pankratz points out, moving his arm from its resting place on the mantlepiece. “And it all came to nothing. I won’t be sent on a fool’s errand again.” He shakes his head, exiting the room, likely to go back to his study. Jaskier considers getting up to follow him, but a loud gasp from Shani draws his attention.

“Mama!” she exclaims, still peering out of the window. “Mama, look! I think she is coming!”

Mrs. Pankratz yelps and rushes to the window, but the hitch of breath from Triss is much more interesting. Jaskier looks across the table, smiling at the sight of his older sister’s awestruck expression.

“Is it really her?” their mother gasps, all excitement. “I believe it must be. She has come, Triss! She has come at _last_!” She turns around, a wide smile plastered on her face. 

“Who is that with her?” Shani asks, still looking outside, and her mother whirls back around.

She frowns, leaning forward to look. “Oh, gods, I don’t know, dear,” she huffs. “Some acquaintance, I suppose.”

“It looks like that man who used to be with her before,” Shani remarks. 

Jaskier’s head snaps away from Triss to stare at his younger sister, brain short-circuiting. Istredd, he thinks, almost desperately. It must be Istredd, there’s no way it can be – 

“Sir… oh, what’s his name?” She frowns. “You know, that tall, silent one.”

It’s only by pure luck that Jaskier doesn’t drop his cup.

“Sir Geralt,” his mother breathes with a touch of disdain, and just like that Jaskier’s mind rattles to a halt, all conscious thought save one practically vanishing in an instant. 

_Geralt is here_. 

Distantly, he can hear his mother fussing. “Well, any friend of Lady Yennefer’s will always be welcome here, to be sure,” she continues, and her voice gets louder as she bustles past. “Else I must say that I hate the sight of him. But I’m determined to be civil – if only because the man is a friend of Yennefer’s – but no _more_ than civil. Oh, sit up straight, Triss.”

Time seems to have frozen, as Jaskier stares straight ahead, his fingers clutching the teacup that’s halfway to his mouth in an aborted motion. Geralt is _back_ , he’s here, and he’s going to see him again.

In the hall the front door slams shut and the sound it enough to startle him back into the present, setting his cup down on the table and adjusting his waistcoat as best he can. He’d rather not have Geralt’s first impression of him be with dark circles under his eyes and hair unruly and clothes rumpled, nursing a persistent hangover, but, well, there’s nothing to be done for it now. Next to him he notes Triss taking a deep breath, while his mother and Shani rush to a seat just as the door to the room opens.

“Lady Yennefer and Sir Geralt, Ma’am,” the housekeeper announces, stepping out of the way to let their guests enter the room. It’s too much to look immediately to Geralt, so Jaskier fixes his eyes on Yennefer, stunning as ever in a flowing black dress with matching lace. 

“Lady Yennefer, you are very, _very_ welcome,” Mrs. Pankratz gushes, and curtseys respectfully.

Yennefer smiles, though Jaskier notices her eyes flicking away. “How do you do, Mrs. Pankratz?” she greets, opening her mouth to continue.

“It is far too long since you were here; and very kind of you to call,” his mother says before the woman can go on, and Jaskier suppresses a sigh, glancing over at Sir Geralt. Like old times, the man is already watching him, and his eyes soften slightly when they meet Jaskier’s, before looking away. “Mr. Pankratz, of course, would have paid his addresses before this were it not… well, here you are.” His mother giggles. “I am delighted. And Sir Geralt.” Her voice takes on a bit of an icy tone. “You are welcome, too.”

Jaskier bites back a groan, sending Sir Geralt the most apologetic look that he can muster as they move more into the room, the others exchanging pleasantries amongst them. Geralt catches the look, and his clenched jaw relaxes somewhat, his eyes going soft again.

The rest of the room is suitably distracted, so Jaskier gives in to the pounding of his heart, sending Geralt a small smile, one that he hopes simultaneously conveys his apologies, relief, and gratitude. It’s a lot to pour into one miniscule action, but whatever it _does_ manage to get across must be good, because Geralt’s eyes widen imperceptibly and the faintest pink tinge colours his cheeks. 

_Interesting_. Jaskier had no idea the man even possessed the ability to blush.

Geralt’s lips twitch in what Jaskier understands is a reciprocal smile, and blushes himself as the man’s eyes rove over his appearance, expression still hard but with a trace of fondness as he takes in his less than put-together exterior. There’s only a brief flicker of doubt as his eyes land on the table, and Jaskier follows his gaze to his lute, which is decidedly not the one Geralt had given him.

Turning back, he nods slightly upwards, indicating the ceiling and his bedroom above it, and Geralt relaxes again, his expression melting back into one of carefully-concealed contentment. 

Noticing a lull in the conversation, Jaskier seizes the opportunity. “Do you mean to stay long in the neighbourhood on this visit?” he asks as calmly as he can, and though the question is directed at Lady Yennefer, he keeps his eyes on Sir Geralt. 

“Well,” Yennefer starts, her voice dripping with so much amusement that Jaskier looks over at her, taking in the self-satisfied smirk she wears as she studies him, glancing up at her friend in the same teasing manner Triss looks at him. “Our plans are not yet firmly settled, but I hope…” she looks towards Triss, and her smile changes from teasing to adoring. “I hope we shall stay some weeks.”

Next to him, Triss’ face is bright red. 

“I hope very much we shall stay a few weeks,” Yennefer says again, eyes bright. “At the very least.”

Jaskier looks away, letting the two of them have their little moment, and turns to face Geralt again. This time, the man _isn’t_ hiding his warmth, no, he’s smiling straight at him.

Later, Triss sighs from next to Jaskier on the front step of their house, watching as Lady Yennefer and Sir Geralt ride off down the road back towards Vengerburg. The visit hadn’t been exceedingly long, but it had been good – if their mother’s constant prattling could be removed. 

“Now that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly at ease,” Triss says, nodding to herself as the horses disappear around a corner. “All is well with me.”

Jaskier smiles. “Good.”

“Now I know my own strength,” Triss continues. “And I shall never again be embarrassed by her coming. We shall be able to meet now as… as common and indifferent acquaintances.”

“Oh, yes, very _indifferent_ ,” Jaskier laughs, reaching around her shoulders to hug her to his side. “Triss, take care.”

Triss blinks at him. “You don’t think me to be in any danger now, Jask.”

“I think,” he starts, guiding her back towards the house. “I think that you are in very great danger of making her as in love with you as ever.”

* * *

"She was in Vizima all that time? And you _concealed_ it from me?" Yennefer shouts incredulously, rushing after Geralt as he stalks towards his horse.

"I did," he answers, voice monotone.

Yennefer gapes for a second, then throws out her arms. "Why?" comes her demand.

“I thought she did not hold the same regard for you as you hold for her,” he starts, reaching up a hand to stroke Roach’s mane as he checks her tack. “I can offer no justification. It was an arrogant presumption based on a failure to recognize your true feelings… and Miss Pankratz’. Obviously, I was incorrect. Her regard for you is great, but I did not care to see it. Not until my eyes were opened.” He thinks back to yesterday, a smile creeping its way onto his face as he recollects Jaskier looking at him with such warmth. Satisfied with Roach’s bridle, he turns back around.

Yennefer is still staring at him, not saying anything.

He sighs. "I should never have interfered. It was wrong of me, Yen, and I apologise," Geralt says through gritted teeth, and it's enough to make Yennefer blink in shock.

"You're... _sorry_?" she repeats, voice tinged with confusion.

Geralt nods once. "I am."

"Don't think that my shock at you admitting to a mistake is enough to stop me from being angry," Yennefer decides after a few seconds of opening and closing her mouth with no sound. "We _will_ be having words later."

Grimacing, Geralt inclines his head in agreement. “You should…” he pauses, thinking on how best to word the next sentence. “You should know that the reason I thought Miss Pankratz did not care is because she did not send any letters, nor come to visit while she was in Vizima.” Yennefer nods, but her brow is lined with confusion. “She did. Numerous times, apparently, but Istredd and Sabrina withheld that information from me as well.”

“Istredd and Sabrina.”

“Yes.”

Yennefer narrows her eyes. “How sure are you?”

Geralt looks her straight in the eye. “ _Very_ ,” he says after a moment. “They as good as admitted as much themselves. Eskel was there, too, he will back me up in this. Tissaia, as far as I know, had nothing to do with it. It was just the two of them. I wanted to tell you, but…”

“But then the situation with Priscilla,” Yennefer finishes for him, and there’s anger in her expression, but pushed away to pave the way for determination. “And yet you still admit you were in the wrong?”

Geralt swallows, but nods. “Utterly and completely.”

“Then…” Yennefer hesitates. “Then I have your blessing?”

Raising an eyebrow, Geralt can’t help the rush of amusement and affection that surge through him for his friend. “Do you need my blessing?”

“ _No_ ,” Yennefer snaps, but shifts her weight nervously. “But I should like to know I have it all the same.”

Geralt grins, climbing onto his horse. “Then go for it.” He laughs, finally, as Yennefer rushes towards the stables, spurring Roach onwards for his morning ride.

* * *

Jaskier actually manages to wake up at a decent time the following morning, and he attributes it to the fact that for the first time in weeks, he fell asleep with a smile on his face. Despite all suspicions towards the contrary, Sir Geralt had come to see him, and hadn’t been put off by the drop in reputation.

Of course, the fact remains that Sir Geralt was the one who actually fixed the issue, but Jaskier’s not sure the man even realises that he knows. Not yet, anyways, Jaskier will thank him in person the next time they see each other.

For now, he’s content to slip into Triss’ room, still in his nightclothes. His older sister is awake and not even dressed, which is indicative of her own happiness – she never sleeps past sunrise if she can help it. Her hair is still down and falling past her shoulders with all the unruliness of a good night’s sleep.

“Triss,” he says, leaving the door cracked open behind him as he goes to sit on the bed. “How are you feeling this morning?” He sends her a cheeky smile at the question, and she rolls her eyes fondly.

“Very well, as I’m sure you already know,” she shoots back. “And what about you? Sir Ger – “

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence, a loud clattering and panicked yells drifting in through the open door. They look up in surprise, watching as their mother comes bursting into the room.

“Triss! Triss!” she calls, still in her nightgown with a cap over her hair, hands flailing wildly. “Oh, my dear Triss!”

“Mother, whatever is the matter?” Triss asks, standing up swiftly. Jaskier looks on in concern, as far as he knows nothing bad has happened, not enough to warrant this type of behaviour.

“She is come!” their mother exclaims, still waving her arms. “She is come, Triss!”

Triss frowns. “ _Who_ is come?”

“Lady Yennefer, of course!” Mrs. Pankratz shrieks, and Jaskier watches as Triss’ mouth opens in surprise, even as her eyes sparkle. “Make haste, make haste! Hurry down!” Their mother stops fussing to look at her daughter and take in her appearance, panic sparking across her expression. “Oh, gracious! You’re not half dressed! Hurry, Triss, hurry!” She runs out of the room, leaving her two eldest children in something of a shocked silence.

It’s Jaskier who snaps out of it first, scrambling off of the bed to throw the doors to Triss’ closet open, grabbing for her favourite blue dress – nice, but not too fancy.   
“This one,” he urges, thrusting it at her. “Go on, put it on!” He pushes it into her arms when she hesitates, blinking at him slowly. “Put it on!” he says, and somewhere in the back of his mind there’s a bit of him that wonders whether he’s becoming too much like his mother.

Thankfully, his urges seem to work, because Triss sets her features and takes the dress. Jaskier turns away as she changes, heading into the hall just as Shani emerges from her own room.

“Mama, where is my new locket that Priscilla brought me from Vizima?” she asks, apparently not realising how much of a frenzied state their mother is in. She turns to her brother instead. “Jask, have you seen me new locket?”

“I can’t say that I – “ Jaskier starts, just as their mother pushes past.

“Oh, never mind your locket, girl!” Mrs. Pankratz says, peeking into Triss’ room. “Triss, stir yourself, she is here! She is here!”

Triss emerges, the blue dress now on, running a brush through her hair. “Mother, I will be down as soon as I can,” she soothes, fumbling with a clasp, and Jaskier steps forward to help her. “Let Shani go down. She far readier than any of us.”

“Oh, hang Shani! What is she to do with it?” their mother snaps, waving a hand. Behind her, Shani screws her face, rushing back towards the confines of her room. Jaskier bites back a sigh as he tries to tame Triss’ hair, knowing he’ll be on damage control for that incident little later. “Triss, be quick,” Mrs. Pankratz hisses, when they hear the door close downstairs. “You must hurry!”

Jaskier ties the final strand into place and their mother all but pushes her daughter down the stairs, reaching out to hold Jaskier back when he goes to follow.

“Mother?” he asks, looking back at her in confusion even as he hears Triss going into the sitting room downstairs. His mother is wearing a smug expression, and immediately he knows what it means as she starts dragging him down the hall towards her own room. “Mother, you can’t let Triss be alone down there! It isn’t proper!”

“And you would know about being proper,” his mother chuckles, and normally the ribbing would be alright, but instead of letting him go she shuts the door to her room behind her. “Just wait a bit. Let them be alone.”

Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest, refusing to look at his mother as she bustles about in her room, putting her own clothes on and getting ready for the day. With the door shut he can’t make out anything that’s going on in the sitting room, and although his mother’s right – he doesn’t always care for propriety – he doesn’t want Triss to be alone lest anything happen. Not that he doesn’t trust Yennefer, it’s just… she’s still his _sister_.

“Mother, please let me go down to Triss,” he pleads, watching as his mother – now dressed – sits at her vanity to take off her nightcap and remove her curlers.

“Stay where you are,” she tells him, and looks exceedingly pleased at the whole situation. “Five more minutes will do the trick.”

She returns to the mirror, even humming as she works, leaving Jaskier to stand still in agitation, fingers twitching as he nervously counts down the seconds. As soon as he reaches the five-minute mark, he’s out the door, ignoring his mother’s protests as he hurtles down the stairs. The entry to the sitting room is open and he pauses. As much as he is concerned that his sister’s alright, he’s still her _brother_ , and pausing will give them a chance to get out of whatever possible compromising position they’ve gotten themselves into.

He needn’t have worried. They’re close, but not too close, and they are holding hands, he notes with delight, unable to stop the smile that spreads over his face. Still, best to be at least somewhat polite. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he apologises, watching as Triss startles back in shock even as he turns to leave. 

“No, no, don’t go, Jask,” Triss calls and he turns back, noting the way his sister blushes as Yennefer leans forward to whisper something into her ear. She, he realises, doesn’t seem embarrassed in the slightest – instead looking the most pleased he’s ever seen her.

Triss nods once at whatever Yennefer is saying and the woman steps back, glancing at Jaskier calculatingly. She seems to make up her mind quickly, and darts forward to give Triss a chaste kiss. Jaskier smiles and looks away, grinning at the small yelp followed by a pleased hum his sister lets out.

“Julian,” he hears after a couple seconds, and looks back to see Triss staring at her feet, beaming widely, and Yennefer stepping towards him.

He hesitates before speaking, then sets his jaw and looks her in the eye. “It’s Jaskier,” he decides, watching her carefully. “If you’re going to marry my sister, you may as well call me Jaskier. Just be aware that I can revoke that privilege.”

Yennefer’s gaze sharpens, and he sees that she understands what he’s saying. _If you hurt my sister, I will kill you_. As calm as ever, she nods, sending him a smile before slipping out the door.

He waits until the door is closed behind her to turn to Triss, arching a brow expectantly. “Well?”

Triss looks up, beaming. “Oh, Jask!” she sighs, rushing forwards to embrace her brother. He melts into it gladly. “I’m so happy,” she whispers, and when they pull back her eyes are brimming with joyful tears. “It is too much; it is too much. Oh, why can’t everyone be as happy as I am?” She giggles, her face open and amazed. “She loves me, Jask, she _loves_ me!”

“ _Of course_ she does,” Jaskier grins, clutching her hands. One of the dark worries inside his chest seems to diminish into nothing at the sound of his sister’s laughter.

“She told me she always loved me, all the time,” Triss gushes, squeezing his hands. “She didn’t believe… oh, I must go tell our mother. She has gone to Father already!” She starts to the door, then thinks better of it and turns back. “Oh, Jask, could you believe things could end in this happy way?”

Jaskier can’t help but beam back at her. “I could and I do.”

“How shall I bear such happiness?” Triss laughs, reaching to hold his arm. “Oh, Jaskier, if I could only see you as happy. If only there were such another person for you.”

“If you were to give me forty such people, I could never be as happy as you,” Jaskier grins, linking his arm through hers to head to the door and tell the rest of their family. “Until I have your goodness, I can never have your happiness. But…” he pauses, schooling his features into his best sincere expression. “…perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may, in time, meet with another Mr. Ferrant.”

Triss gives him a look and they both burst out laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that it's slightly late, but hopefully the content makes up for it! Next chapter - you guys know what time it is! Lady Catherine de Bourgh!!!!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know I said I would update every other day... but I've got the whole thing finished and I couldn't wait, so here's this one a day early.

Triss hasn’t stopped smiling all day, not that Jaskier can blame her, nor does he mind. He’s rather glad himself at the situation, and he’s known for as long as he can remember that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to secure his sister’s happiness. 

“She has made me so happy,” Triss breathes, once they’re finally alone in her room after having been lauded by the whole family well into the evening. It’s past midnight, now, and the candlelight flickers over the panes of her beaming face. “Did you know, she was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, knowing that there are things he still cannot share. “How did she account for it?”

“She thought me _indifferent_ ,” Triss says, and he scoffs. “You find it unfathomable, I know,” Triss continues, sliding off of the window ledge to come sit opposite him on the bed. “No doubt poisoned by her pernicious friends.” She sniffs disdainfully.

“Bravo!” Jaskier laughs, clapping his hands in delight at his sister’s harsh words. “I do believe that is the most unforgiving speech you’ve _ever_ made.”

“And I doubt it shall be the last where they’re concerned.” She grins, then sighs happily, opening her mouth to let out what would undoubtedly be another sappy expression of her contentment, when a noise sounds from outside, drifting up through the open window. She looks around curiously. “What was that?”

There’s another noise, oddly similar to the wheels of a carriage over gravel, followed soon after by a loud banging on the front door. Jaskier frowns. “Who could be coming to call at this time of night?”

“I’ve no idea,” Triss answers, her face the same state of confusion as his, following him as he slides off of the bed and makes his way down the stairs. Their parents are already there, and he sees Shani come up beside him, all craning their necks as they watch the housekeeper open the front door. Gasps sound out as they take in the large figure on the stoop, one who comes in uninvited to stand in the hall.

Jaskier gulps, heart racing as he recognises their guest. “Count Dijkstra,” he greets, and more gasps sound from his unwitting family.

The man does not acknowledge him immediately, instead looking down his nose at Mrs. Pankratz. “These are the rest of your offspring, I suppose,” he says, sharp gaze flitting over every one of them.

To her credit, their mother seems to get over her shock relatively quickly, sinking into a deep curtsey. “All but one,” she answers, her voice shaky. “My youngest has been lately married, your lordship. And my eldest was only proposed to this afternoon.”

Count Dijkstra sniffs dismissively. “You have a very small garden, madam.”

“I’m sure it is nothing compared to Tretogor Park,” Mrs. Pankratz says, and Jaskier has to blink, wondering where this unusual conversation is going. It’s past midnight, and they’re all in their nightclothes, staring at the most unexpected of guests.

“Could I… could I offer you a cup of tea, perhaps?” his father asks tentatively, and it’s in a small voice that Jaskier’s never actually heard from his father before. 

“Absolutely not,” the Count snaps, and they shrink back a little, but Jaskier most of all as the man’s eyes fall directly onto him. “I must speak to Master Julian alone, as a matter of complete urgency.”

His family all turn to look at one another, bewildered by this strange turn of events, and it takes everything Jaskier has in him to swallow his fears and step forward, accepting the oil lamp his father passes him. Looking away, he turns to go into the sitting room, Count Dijkstra following behind and closing the door on the rest of the family. He knows that they’ll not have left, though, just be eavesdropping outside the door. As such, he walks to the farthest end of the room, hoping that they’ll have at least a little privacy.

“You can be at no loss to understand the reason for my journey, Master Julian,” the Count starts, a look of stern disapproval and rising anger on his face.

Jaskier straightens his back, looking Dijkstra in the eye. “Indeed, you are mistaken, sir,” he responds coolly, even though there is a sneaking suspicion that he _does_ know. “I am quite unable to account for the honour of seeing you here.”

“Master Julian, you ought to know I am not to be trifled with,” Dijkstra says condescendingly, lifting one hand to inspect his nails. “But however insincere you choose to be, you shall not find me so. A report of an alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told not only that your sister was to be most advantageously married, but that you, Master Julian Pankratz, would be soon afterwards united to my own nephew, Sir Geralt.”

“I wonder at you knowing of my sister’s engagement, as it has only just taken place,” Jaskier says, the only thing he can think of to give him time to fully process the man’s words.

The Count narrows his eyes. “I have ears everywhere, Julian,” he says harshly. “When Lady Yennefer returned to the neighbourhood, I knew it would only be a matter of time. And you, united to my nephew.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Though I know it must be a scandalous falsehood, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place to make my sentiments known to you.”

“If you believed it to be impossible it's strange you took the trouble of coming so far,” Jaskier retorts, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. He knows where this is going. “What would your lordship propose by it?”

“At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted,” Dijkstra replies, though it’s more of a command than an actual answer.

Jaskier sets his jaw. “Your coming to Lettenhove to see me will be taken as a confirmation of it, if, indeed, such a report exists.”

“ _If_ such a report exists?” the Count repeats, stalking forwards so that he’s only a few feet away, all furious indignance. “This is not to be borne. Master Julian, I insist on being satisfied. Has my nephew made you an offer of marriage?”

The answer is yes, but there’s no way Jaskier will admit to that, instead glaring as ferociously as he can. “Your lordship has declared it to be impossible.”

“It ought to be so,” the Count agrees, eyes narrowing. “But your arts and allurements may have made him forget what he owes to himself and all the family. You may have drawn him in.”

_Arts and allurements_. If he were not so incensed, he may have actually laughed at that. “If I had, I should be the last person to confess it,” he snaps, filing away the words to tell Triss about later.

Dijkstra closes his eyes, as if gathering strength. “Master Julian, do you know who I am?” he asks, low and dangerous, opening his eyes again to fix Jaskier with a truly imposing glare, that would have had anyone else cowering. Jaskier stares back in determination not to quail under the Count’s words and gaze. “I have not been accustomed to such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has, and I am entitled to know all his nearest concerns.”

“But you are not entitled to know mine, nor will such behaviour as this induce me to be explicit,” Jaskier counters, crossing his arms over his chest as a sort of barrier. The last time he had a conversation – argument – with a man from Tretogor in this room things did not end well.

“Let me be rightly understood,” Dijkstra hisses. “This match, to which you have the presumption to aspire, can _never_ take place. Now what have you to say?”

“Only this,” Jaskier starts, blinking and breathing in to try and get his heartbeat under control. “You have no control over me, your lordship, and that if you had _any_ sway over your nephew, you could have no reason to suppose he would make an offer to me.”

Dijkstra snarls. “We all no I have no full control over him,” he spits out, like it angers him, and Jaskier believes it does. “If I _had_ , he would marry my daughter, but there is no engagement there, as much as it pains me. She is far superior to you in every quality, no matter how his preferences run, but regardless, there are others who are eligible. And is that change now to be prevented by the upstart pretensions of a young man without family connections or fortune! Is this to be endured?” He sighs, taking another step forward. “It shall not be. Your alliance would be a disgrace. Your name would never even be mentioned by any of us.”

Jaskier raises his eyebrows. “These would be heavy misfortunes, indeed.”

“Obstinate, _headstrong_ boy!” Dijkstra gasps, enraged. “I’m ashamed of you. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.”

“That would make your lordship’s situation at present more pitiable,” Jaskier says, not even bothering to try and refrain from going too far at this point. “But it will have no effect on me.”

“I will not be insulted.” Dijkstra starts pacing, circling around Jaskier as he tries to stay standing in place, staring straight ahead. “If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in which you’ve been brought up.”

Jaskier gapes, forcing himself to recover quickly as the man comes to stand in front of him again. “Count Dijkstra,” he starts, fighting to keep his voice steady. “In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as _quitting that sphere_. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman’s son. So far, we are equal.”

“But who is your mother?” Dijkstra presses, stepping forward so that he’s only about a yard away. “Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition.”

“Whatever my connections may be,” Jaskier starts, and despite his best efforts, he can hear himself how his voice is beginning to tremble. “If your nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to you.”

Dijkstra rears up. “Tell me once and for all: are you engaged to him?”

Jaskier hesitates, then steels himself. “I am not.”

The Count releases a sigh of relief, closing his eyes again and letting the silence settle for a moment before blinking, his features still angry, but more complacent than before. “And will you promise me never to enter into such an engagement?”

“I will make no promise of the kind,” Jaskier retorts, continuing over Dijkstra’s enraged expression and open mouth. “And I must beg you not to importune me any further on the subject.” He nods once, striding past the man to head towards the door. At this point all he wants is for the man to leave and then crawl into bed.

“Not so hasty, if you please, I have another objection! Your youngest sister’s infamous elopement,” Dijkstra calls, and Jaskier stops, but doesn’t turn around. “I know it all!” the man continues. “Oh, is such a girl to be my nephew’s sister-in-law? Are the shades of Kaer Morhen to be thus polluted?”

Jaskier spins on his heel, uncrossing his arms to let them hang by his sides. “Allow me to say, the arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged,” he spits, curling his fingers into fists. “You have insulted me by every possible method and can now have nothing further to say. I must ask you to leave immediately.” He strides towards the door and throws it open, unsurprised when the rest of his family startle back. He looks at Dijkstra expectantly. “ _Good night_.”

“You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew?” the Count despairs, eyes spitting fire. “Unfeeling, selfish boy! You refuse to oblige me. You refuse the claims of duty, honour, _gratitude_. You are determined to ruin him and make him the contempt of the world.”

“I am only resolved to act in a manner which will constitute my _own_ happiness,” Jaskier retorts, indicating the open doorway. “Without reference to _you_ or any other person so wholly unconnected with me.”

Dijkstra regards him carefully. “And this is your final resolve?” At Jaskier’s nod, he gathers himself, walking towards the door. “I have never been thus treated in my entire life,” he hisses as he storms past the family still watching with bated breath, not even bothering to look back as he stalks through the front door, slamming it behind him with an air of finality. A moment later the sounds of the carriage starting to drive off resonates through the hall.

Jaskier stays still, shaking, and not daring to look at any of his family.

“Jaskier,” says Mr. Pankratz eventually, and it’s a testament to how rattled he must appear for his father to actually use his nickname. “What is the name of all the gods is going on?”

“Just a small misunderstanding,” Jaskier breathes out, finally shaking himself out of his stupor to walk past them towards the stairs.

His mother gasps. “ _Julian_!”

“For once in your life, just leave me _alone_!” he shouts, turning back to them and only briefly registering the shocked expressions on their faces, aghast at his reaction, before he bounds up the stairs as quickly as possible. He doesn’t want to see them, doesn’t want to talk to them, he just wants to get some damn sleep.

He stomps into his room, ignoring the fact that he’s practically throwing a temper tantrum, and collapses onto his bed, closing his eyes. Soon enough the sounds of the rest of his family heading to their own rooms and beds starts to trickle in, making him blink up at the ceiling with a sigh. Apparently, he _won’t_ be getting much sleep tonight, still hopped up on adrenaline and nerves that mix to create a hyper combination. It’s late, in the small hours of the morning, and he’s got no excuse to get ready and go about his day, still far too early for that.

The sounds from the rest of the house die down as everyone settles in for the night. _They_ will be getting a good bit of sleep, Jaskier thinks bitterly, rolling onto his stomach and groaning into his pillow. Fucking Count Sigismund Dijkstra, sticking his crooked nose where it doesn’t belong.

He’s wrong, Jaskier is well aware that Geralt doesn’t care as much for his spotless reputation as he once did. He doesn’t, otherwise there would have been no point in introducing him to Ciri, helping his sister without receiving any credit, or explaining so that Yennefer would propose. If Geralt _truly_ hated him, he wouldn’t have smiled at him when they visited. Wouldn’t have given him that lute.

It’s still there, in its spot on the dresser, where it rests all day long until just before he goes to bed, when he pulls it into his lap to reminisce. He hasn’t cried over it the past few nights, at least, the tentative sprout of hope that’s been growing in his chest has seen to that.

Until tonight.

Fucking Dijkstra. It’s a phrase that keeps running through his mind, and will likely continue to do so for the entire night, unless he finds something suitable to distract himself. Unconsciously, his gaze flickers back to the lute.

_What the hell_ , he thinks, pushing himself up off of the bed to reach for it, settling back down with the instrument in his lap. Like every other night, he starts by tracing the grain of the wood, callouses catching slightly on the edges and the flower motifs. Blue, the same colour as his eyes. He’s starting to think Geralt chose that colour on purpose.

Tonight, something inside of him seems to have snapped. He doesn’t want to just look at the instrument, doesn’t want to only know how it feels from hesitant touches. 

Tonight, he takes a deep breath and shifts the lute into the proper position, running his fingertips over the strings and shaping the chords with his left hand.

Tonight, he plays.

* * *

Geralt hasn’t quite managed to fall asleep yet when the servant comes to knock on his door. It’s well past midnight by now, but with all of his tossing and turning sleep would not come easy. 

He knows why he’s still awake, knows that it’s because of an ache in his chest that won’t go away. Seeing Jaskier the day before, healthy and beautiful and _happy_ , but still knowing that there’s a separation between them. He wants to take a page out of Yennefer’s book and march down to Lettenhove first thing in the morning to propose, but, well. There’s still the lingering doubt that what happened last time would happen again. Jaskier would let him down gently, this time, he’s sure of that – but it would be a rejection all the same. 

The hope inside of his chest frantically tries to tell him that _no_ , this time everything would be _fine_ , Jaskier will undoubtedly accept – the smiles and genuine happiness the other day have assured him of that – but even with the evidence piling up in support of that notion, he still has doubts.

Geralt sighs and sits up. “Come in,” he calls, running a hand over his face before turning to look towards the door and the figure of the servant standing there, holding an oil lamp and shifting his feet on the floor almost nervously. “What is it?”

“If you please, sir,” the servant starts, and with his eyes adjusting Geralt can see it’s one of the girls the housekeeper generally has surrounding her. “A gentleman has just come. Says he wants to speak to you directly.” The maid pauses, and Geralt motions for her to continue. “It’s, uh, it’s the Count, sir.”

Immediately, Geralt tenses, cursing under his breath. What the fuck is his uncle doing _here_? And at this hour of the night, too? He doesn’t voice these thoughts, instead casting the covers off as he moves to stand up. The maid squeaks and steps back, and he remembers that he’s only wearing a pair of trousers. “Tell him I am on my way,” he says wearily, watching as the maid curtseys before scurrying off. 

He sighs again, grabbing a plain shirt to pull on, tucking it into his breeches before looking around for a coat and boots. He may not have the largest amount of regard for his uncle, but he’s still an important enough figure that Geralt wouldn’t like to greet him clad only in his nightclothes. He pulls his boots on and throws his coat over his shoulders, leaving the rest as it is, before heading downstairs.

Dijkstra is waiting for him in the foyer, Yennefer as flawless as ever a few yards away. They both look up as he approaches, his uncle schooling his expression into one of simple displeasure, while Yennefer appears exceedingly amused with the proceedings. Geralt shoots her a warning look before turning to the newcomer.

“Uncle,” he greets, and the lack of inflection in his voice does not pass the man by. “What are you doing here?”

“Geralt,” the man returns, sniffing. “I was just in Lettenhove, calling on that little country _whore_ you seem to love so much. Julian Pankratz.”

Geralt snarls, but Yennefer beats him to the punch.

“Get out,” she hisses, pointing at the door. Her expression is dark and stormy as she steps towards the man, as menacing as possible.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Dijkstra gasps, affronted.

“I said _get out_ ,” Yennefer repeats, nodding at the servants to come forward lest the man try to resist. “You are not welcome here.”

The servants reach to take Dijkstra’s arms, but he pushes them away even as he backs up. “I told him that any alliance between him and you would be wholly unacceptable,” he continues, almost tripping over his own feet as Geralt advances, barely aware of his own growling. “And that little _brat_ had the audacity to rebuke _me_ , to say that he would do whatever he liked.” Geralt pauses, frowning, while the Count huffs. “Arrogant, _worthless_ bastard. He’ll be sorry that he ever – “

He cuts himself off with a yelp as Yennefer pushes right up against him. “I think you’ll find that that’s my future brother-in-law you’re talking about,” she says, low and warning. “Have a care how you speak about him in my home.”

“I shall speak about him however I like,” Dijkstra scoffs, trying to wrench his arm out of the grasp one of Yennefer’s footmen has managed to get on it. “Unhand me! Geralt, surely, you must see that this… this _boy_ is not worthy of you!”

“Indeed, Uncle,” Geralt says slowly, coming up to stand beside Yennefer and stare his uncle down, using his height to his advantage even as he cracks a wide and dangerous smile. “It is _I_ who is not worthy of _him_.”

Dijkstra splutters, lost for words, and Yennefer nods to her servants. They drag him back, not relenting even as he puts up a fuss, and don’t release him until he’s been deposited in his carriage. “This is not the last you’ll hear of this,” he warns, and Yennefer grins wickedly.

“Oh, I think it is,” she tells him, voice sickeningly sweet. “Or I shall have to remove you like a particularly irritating obstacle. My contacts are far more skilled than yours, I can assure you.”

The Count sends her a withering glare, but Geralt has known Yennefer long enough to know that nothing even remotely dangerous is enough to rattle her. She stands beside him, a pillar of calm and confidence, even while his breath hitches and his palms are sweating where they’re clenched by his sides. They stand in silence as the carriage drives off down the road, two of Yennefer’s footmen following on horseback to ensure they leave the property.

It’s not until they’re out of sight that Yennefer turns to him, eyes scanning over his heaving chest and scowling face. “What are you going to do?” she asks, gentler than she usually is with him.

He’s tense, almost impossibly so, and the pure, unadulterated rage in him at hearing his uncle call Jaskier – _his_ Jaskier – those fucking _abominable_ words is still burning inside of him, and he knows that he’ll definitely not be sleeping tonight. Especially not with the added implications that Jaskier didn’t outright tell his uncle that he wouldn’t consider marrying Geralt.

“I need to clear my head,” Geralt says, and it’s true – his thoughts are swirling enough that he can barely comprehend them, his heart beating rapidly and the feeling of hope swelling to even larger proportions. “I’ll… I’m going to go for a walk. Don’t wait up to me.”

Yennefer looks at him in slight concern, but nods, turning to head back to her room.

Sighing, Geralt shakes his head and strides to the door, out into the chilly early morning air, only the faintest tendrils of light starting to creep over the horizon. Without bothering to think about where he’s heading, he lets his feet guide him through the fields and towards Lettenhove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! So, as this one was a day early like I said, and since I've got the whole thing completed anyways, I'm going to go ahead and upload the final chapter and epilogue tomorrow. _Surprise!_


	26. Chapter 26

Jaskier creeps out into the garden, the early morning mist swirling around his legs as he walks over the lawn, out towards the fields beyond the house. He’d stayed up the whole night, unable to sleep, playing old tunes and new ones on the precious lute with the blue flowers. 

The sky is still relatively dark, clouds covering the span of it and keeping the majority of the sun’s first rays of light at bay, and the effect is that the mist rises almost ominously over the ground, curling up and into the sky that’s pink-tinged with dawn. It’s quiet, Jaskier notes, and realises it’s because any sane thing would still be asleep. Except for him, it would seem.

The sun rises a little higher in the sky as he walks, hazy behind the thin layer of clouds but valiantly making an effort to shine over the horizon. In the field, the mist is just starting to evaporate, and it’s enough that he’s able to make out a figure emerging from the mist at the far end of the field. His breath hitches, and suddenly he remembers that he’s all alone in the middle of nowhere, and in not necessarily the best mental state.

Jaskier’s heart misses a beat seconds before his brain catches up with his eyes, his feet almost tripping over each other as they hasten to approach Sir Geralt, stepping through the mist like a figure from a dream.

“Sir Geralt!” he calls, a smile spreading across his face as he rushes the last couple steps, stopping about a yard or two away from the man who he’s starting to think is coming straight out of a vision, long coat open and a simple dark shirt loose across his chest. Those golden eyes sparkle and the white hair blends with the mist behind it. Jaskier can’t remember ever seeing anything more beautiful.

The vision smiles back. “Jaskier,” it rumbles, and the sound of that deep voice is enough to convince him that is actually is Geralt. “What are you doing out here so early?”

“I could not sleep,” Jaskier confesses, unable to look away.

“Me neither,” Geralt responds, eyes crinkling at the corners as he gazes at Jaskier. “I have been up most of the night.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, and shuts it again, momentarily at a loss as to what he wants to say. He feels surprisingly wrong-footed, despite being in a situation that he had daydreamed about once or twice (alright, _maybe_ more than that), and the first thing that he says is the one that’s been lingering ever since Priscilla had let slip the man’s involvement in her marriage.

“Sir Geralt, I must thank you for your unexampled generosity to both my sisters,” he begins, and Geralt blinks at the unexpected words. “I know what kindnesses you have done for poor Priscilla and suspect your hand in the happy resolution for Triss also. I know what trouble, and what mortification it must have caused you.” He watches anxiously, continuing before the man can reply. “ _Please_ let me say this. Please allow me… to thank you on behalf of all my family, since they don’t know to whom they are indebted.”

Geralt looks startled, but nods. “If you will thank me, let it be for yourself alone,” he says, in a tone that’s gentle, but brooks no argument. “Your family owes me nothing. As much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.” He pauses, shifting his balance from one foot to the other. “I will admit I am alarmed that you know of what I have been so in earnest to keep silent. But you must know that _your_ happiness was one of my prime inducements.”

Jaskier stares, his heart beating wildly.

“I know you are too generous to trifle with me,” Geralt goes on, and he looks almost… _scared_? Nervous? “I believe you spoke with my uncle last night, and it has taught me to hope as I had scarcely allowed myself before. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once.” He clears his throat, eyes darting away before coming back to rest on Jaskier’s face. “My… my affections and wishes are unchanged.” There’s another pause, and Geralt starts to look worried. “But one word from you will silence me forever.”

Jaskier blinks.

“If, however…” Geralt tries again, slowly, and if only Jaskier’s mouth would catch up with the rest of him, if only his body would cooperate, he could fling himself into Geralt’s arms and stay there for eternity to assuage his fears. “If your feelings _have_ changed…”

Jaskier’s mouth is still not responding, but he manages to take a shaky step forward.

“I would have to tell you,” Geralt says, and by all the gods, he’s so nervous, he’s _ambling_. Jaskier thinks it may be the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. “You have bewitched my body and soul and I love… and love and love you. And never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”

A tear rolls down Jaskier’s cheek and he abruptly realises he’s crying. Geralt notices at the same time and takes a step back in shock, and _no_ , that’s precisely the direction Jaskier _doesn’t_ want him to go. He’s frozen, again, but in return it seems his mouth may finally be working properly.

“I thought _I_ was the poet,” he says shakily, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth and threatening to crack him wide open. “I am very happy to inform you that not only have my sentiments changed, there are no other words which could give me greater pleasure.”

Tentatively, Geralt steps back, staring at Jaskier as if he holds the answers to the secrets of the universe. “Count Dijkstra told me of his meeting with you,” he blurts out, frowning as if that wasn’t what he had been meaning to say. Jaskier stifles a chuckle. “I may say that his disclosure had quite the opposite effect to the one he intended. It taught me to hope as I’d scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew that, had you _absolutely_ decided against me, you would have acknowledged it openly.”

“Yes,” Jaskier laughs, feeling almost light-headed at the sheer joy he’s feeling. “You know enough of my frankness to believe me capable of _that_. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple of abusing you to all your relations.”

“But what did you say of me that I did not deserve?” Geralt’s smiling again too, and that’s good, Jaskier never wants it to go away. “My behaviour to you at the time was unpardonable, I can hardly think of it without abhorrence. Your reproof I shall never forget. _Had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner_. You know not how those words have tortured me.”

“I had not the smallest idea of their ever being taken in such a way,” Jaskier admits, cringing a little at the memory.

Geralt laughs. “I can easily believe it,” he chuckles. “You thought me devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, and you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me.”

“Do not repeat what I said then,” Jaskier says, waving a hand and oh – he can move again. He immediately steps forward.

Geralt imitates him, and if either one of them took a single step they’d be right up against each other. “No,” he says softly, raising a hand slowly, carefully, but not moving it farther than in the small space between them. “I’ve been a selfish being all my life. As a child I was given good principles, but was left to follow them in pride and conceit; and such I might still have been, but for you…”

He stares at him, and Jaskier’s breath hitches again, a puff of air that’s released into the bubble between them. He’s still crying, he realises, and it’s with another dash of shock that he sees _Geralt’s_ eyes are red-rimmed too, though both of them have smiles so wide he’s not sure tears matter.

A single tear, hopefully the last one, runs down his face and he sees Geralt’s eyes snap to it, his raised hand trembling only slightly as he reaches, settling the palm over Jaskier’s jaw, his thumb delicately brushing away the droplet. Jaskier closes his eyes and inhales, relaxing into the motion.

When he opens them again, Geralt is watching him with that same look of utter fondness, only now there’s something else mingled with it – something Jaskier can only recognise because he’s feeling it too, right at this very second.

Joy.

He gasps slightly as he recognises it for what it is, and he knows now that this is it, there’s no coming back from this moment. Geralt looks at him, _touches_ him, like no one has ever done before, and no one ever will again. He blinks with the staggering realisation that that’s what he wants, _forever_ , until the end of time, his lips parting slightly in equal parts surprise and adoration.

“Jas,” Geralt breathes, tenderly, his thumb tracing Jaskier’s cheekbone.

He takes that last tiny step forward and they’re both tumbling over the precipice, lips meeting hesitantly at first, a fleeting touch, gentle. Then, Geralt moves his other hand so that he’s cupping Jaskier’s face and Jaskier surges forward, _finally_ winding his hands through Geralt’s hair and pressing their mouths together more firmly. It’s hot and messy and there are still tear tracks on his face but it’s so, so good and he never ever wants to leave this moment.

* * *

“ _Engaged_? To Sir Geralt?” Triss gasps, barely quieting even when Jaskier shushes her. “No, you are joking. It is impossible.”

Jaskier chuckles. “This is a wretched beginning,” he despairs, then glances nervously towards the door of his father’s study, outside of which they’re seated on the same bench that Triss stroked his hair on after Ferrant’s proposal all those months ago. “If you don’t believe me, I’m sure no one else will. Indeed, I am in earnest. He still loves me, and we are engaged. He is talking to Father now.”

“No, Jask, it can’t be true,” Triss breathes, even though there’s a smile tugging at her lips that betrays her true thoughts. “I know how much you _dislike_ him.”

“Oh, no, it is all forgotten,” Jaskier says, in lieu of admitting that his sister may have been right all along. “Perhaps I didn’t always love him as well as I do now; but in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable.”

Triss rolls her eyes, but leans forward. “Dearest Jaskier, do be serious,” she admonishes. “We both know I was right. Now, tell me: how long have you loved him?”

“Well, it has been coming on so gradually, I hardly know,” Jaskier admits, brow furrowed as he thinks back to July and his time at Hertch. He grins. “But… I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Kaer Morhen.”

“Jask!” Triss hisses reproachfully, swatting at his arm, and Jaskier is laughing too hard to dodge the attack, stretching one hand out to retaliate when the door opens. They both sober immediately as Geralt steps out.

He glances over, nodding at Triss respectfully before his gaze lands on Jaskier, softening at once and a small smile curving its way onto his lips. Jaskier stands, his own smile matching his betrothed’s – his _betrothed!_ – and reaching out a hand to grasp his quickly, before ducking inside his father’s study. The door falls shut behind him, and faintly he can hear Triss’ voice as she leads Geralt away into the garden, leaving him and his father alone. 

Mr. Pankratz looks up, and there’s a look of complete and utter shock on his face. “Julian, are you out of your senses?” he demands, and Jaskier tenses as he rises from his chair to step out from behind his desk. “I thought you hated the man!”

“No, Father.” Jaskier bites back a sigh.

“He is rich, to be sure,” Mr. Pankratz says offhand, gesturing wildly in the air to illustrate his surprise. “And you will have more fine things than Triss, or Priscilla and Shani. But will that make you _happy_?”

Jaskier shifts his weight, frowning. “Have you any other objection than your belief in my indifference?”

“None at all,” his father says promptly, waving a hand dismissively. “We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of fellow, but this would be nothing if you _really_ liked him.”

“I do like him,” Jaskier says, and can feel the accursed tears welling back up in his eyes at how good it feels to finally be able to say that, to feel like he could scream it out for the entire continent to hear. “I _love_ him. He’s not proud, it is I who’s been prejudiced, who didn’t realise…” he sighs, closing his eyes briefly. “You don’t _know_ him, Father… if I told you what he’s really like. What he’s done.”

Mr. Pankratz frowns. “What has he done?”

Jaskier hesitates briefly, then tells him everything.

From the truth of Voorhis’ situation and Geralt’s part in it, to little Ciri with her enthusiasm for music, the concealment of Triss’ presence in Vizima, the first proposal. He tells him about the lute sitting upstairs, about why Count Dijkstra came in the night, why Jaskier was so out of sorts after he arrived home from Hertch – and finally Geralt’s part in solving the issue with Priscilla.

When he’s done, his father stares at him for a good two minutes before speaking, voice hoarse and face drawn in sudden realisation. “Good gods,” he breathes, and it must be shock that makes him so unsure. “I must pay him back.”

“No, you _mustn’t_ tell anyone!” Jaskier says urgently, shaking his head. “He wouldn’t want anyone to know, not least for his ward’s sake and what’s left of Priscilla’s respectability.” He pauses, hands outstretched as if he can physically stop his father from spreading the word. “We misjudged him, me more than anyone. In every way, not just in this matter. I’ve been _so_ blind. _He’s_ been so blind! About Triss, about so many things. But then, so have I…” he trails off, inhaling deeply.

His father is still staring at him, silent.

“You see, he and I are so similar,” Jaskier continues, and chuckles. “We’re both so stubborn.” He shakes his head again at the thought. “Oh, Father…”

Mr. Pankratz watches him, and there’s still shock on his face, but it seems that he realises something, swallowing and leaning back against the edge of his desk. “You _do_ love him, don’t you,” he says, and it’s less of a question and more of a statement.

Jaskier nods anyway. “Very much.”

His father looks at him earnestly, searching his face, and Jaskier can hardly breathe in the seconds that seem to stretch into years as he waits nervously for the verdict. Finally, after what seems like an entire lifetime has passed, his father sighs. Whatever he found must have given him an answer, must be enough to leave him in no doubt.

“I cannot believe that _anyone_ can deserve you,” he says eventually, and Jaskier waits for the rest of the words with bated breath. “But it seems I am overruled. So, I heartily give my consent.”

Jaskier releases his breath in what is almost a squeal, launching himself forward and throwing his arms around his father’s neck, clinging tightly.

Mr. Pankratz chuckles wetly, patting him on the back. “I could not have parted with you, my Julian, for anyone less worthy.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier breathes, pulling back to place a kiss on his father’s cheek before going to rush from the room.

“And if any young suitors come for Shani,” Jaskier hears as he races away, “Send them in! For I am quite at my leisure.” Jaskier can’t be bothered to respond, instead hurtling through the front door and into the garden, where he knows Geralt will be waiting for him. Without even waiting for the man to say anything, Jaskier practically collides with him in a jumble of arms and hair, crashing their mouths together with all the passion he can muster.

* * *

Geralt pulls back slowly, unwilling to be parted from Jaskier at all, but he needs to know if this is a good kiss or a desperate one. He doesn’t want it to be a desperate, last kiss – it’s almost pathetic how much he _craves_ this, wants more, at all times. He needn’t have worried, it seems, as Jaskier’s beaming face comes into view, blinking away more of those happy tears.

“He has given his consent,” the man in his arms breathes, and even if Geralt hadn’t been completely ready to elope with Jaskier this exact moment in the same way his sister had – propriety be damned – there’s still a rush of relief that washes over him at the news.

“That’s good,” he rumbles out, and he just knows that the way Jaskier’s eyes light up every time he speaks is something he’ll never get used to, and will never have his fill of, either.

Jaskier smiles up at him, and they’re as close to each other as they can get without actually crawling inside of one another, even if Geralt wants to curl up inside Jaskier’s chest and make a home there forever.

“I love you,” Jaskier says, his eyes impossibly blue and face open and adoring, and Geralt is convinced he’s died on the spot, brain short-circuiting and every nerve ending in his body sparking so that he feels as if he’s been lit up from the inside with the most incredible warmth. He’s said those words to Jaskier before, twice now, but it’s the first time he’s heard them said _back_ , and it’s the most intense feeling he’s ever experienced. There’s nothing for it but to crush Jaskier in his arms and press their lips together again.

They’re both panting by the time they break apart, but Geralt can’t find it in himself to move away, he has to keep touching Jaskier. “I love you too,” he whispers, the words pressed into the skin of Jaskier’s cheek.

Jaskier leans back slightly to look at him, full of curiosity. “How did it begin?”

“I cannot fix the hour, or the spot, or the look,” Geralt tells him, open and honest. “It was too long ago and I was in the middle before I knew it had begun.”

“I understand that,” Jaskier says, and it’s that notion of reciprocation, of _connection_ , that lifts any last lingering doubts or fears from Geralt’s chest. He stares down at the man in his arms, sure that adoration and happiness and love are practically oozing from his pores at this point for all to see. Jaskier grins at him. “Now be sincere: did you admire me for my impertinence?”

Geralt grins back. “For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”

“You may as well call it impertinence, though make a virtue of it by all means,” Jaskier teases, smirking, though his eyes remain soft. “My good qualities are under your protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible. And, in return, it belongs to me to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may be. I shall begin directly…”

Geralt hums, heart fit to burst, and pulls Jaskier in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got a kiss! Multiple kisses!!! 
> 
> Stick around for the epilogue, it should be up in a couple of minutes, and then we're done!


	27. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just pure, unadulterated _fluff_.

Geralt wakes up with someone else’s hair in his mouth.

It’s not an altogether unusual experience, more often than not Ciri comes in at some point during the night because of some nightmare or other, or because she’s lonely, or can’t sleep. Ciri isn’t here, though, and when Geralt cracks an eye open it’s Jaskier’s sleeping face that greets him.

Jaskier, who had made a joke about lubrication during their first dance; Jaskier, who had shouted and insulted and scorned him; Jaskier who had kissed him so ardently and who had radiated pure, unadulterated glee when they had been married.

_His_ Jaskier.

They’re touching slightly, Geralt on his side as he looks down at the man in his bed and wonders how he managed to get so damn lucky. He’s not been able to have Jaskier to himself like this at all, yet – first with Yennefer and Triss’ wedding and then their own, taking care of Ciri and greeting Eskel and trying to stop Lambert from causing too much irreparable damage in Lettenhove. Even the after the wedding there hadn’t been much time, preparing first for the trip to Vizima to drop Ciri off and then onwards to Kaer Morhen.

Eskel had waved them off in Vizima, hands clapping over Ciri’s ears as he promised to look after her while Geralt and Jaskier got to know each other a little bit more _intimately_. Geralt had glared, annoyed – but Jaskier had just laughed and sent a cheeky wink with the assurance that they certainly would, thank you very much. They’d set out to Kaer Morhen barely an hour later. By the time they had arrived it was already past nightfall, and they had both been to exhausted to do anything other than fall into bed and go to sleep.

It’s morning now, though, and Geralt is sufficiently well-rested enough that he doesn’t bother trying to drift off again, instead deciding to make every effort to memorise Jaskier like this.

He’s lying on his front, head turned to the side, and Geralt bites his lip to stop the chuckle that threatens to burst out at the sight of the tiny bit of drool glistening at the side of Jaskier’s mouth. His brown hair is messy, falling over his forehead, and Geralt is so close that he could count each individual eyelash if he wanted to, curled over his cheeks. There’s a red mark on Jaskier’s shoulder from where he’d had the strap of his lute case resting all day yesterday, and his shirt is unlaced and slipping down enough that his entire collar is on full display.

Geralt has never seen anything so stunning in his entire life.

His heart is calm, a rhythmic pounding that is somehow more intense than when it beats wildly. It’s complacent, he realises, _content_ – and somewhere he knows that it’s because he never thought he’d get to have something like this, would never wake up in bed next to the man he _loves_ , never have the opportunity to build a life together.

But he does, and Jaskier is beside him, and Geralt doesn’t really want to wake him up but he does want to hold him even more, so he gives into his urges and slides an arm over the small of Jaskier’s back, pulling him up flush against his chest. 

Jaskier makes a sleepy noise of semi-protest, blinking blearily as he starts to wake up. There’s a small flash of confusion in his blue eyes, but then Geralt noses over his forehead and the confusion melts away into pure comfort, a yawn threatening to split his face in two before he smiles a smile that’s somehow even wider. Geralt can’t look away, doesn’t know how, and he realises that he gets to have this every day for the rest of his life. It’s a happy thought, and he wouldn’t have been able to stop the pleased rumble in his chest that’s practically a purr if he tried.

“Hello,” he says, and Jaskier smiles up at him.

“Hello.” And shit, his voice is hoarse and sleep-addled and Geralt absolutely has to kiss him right the fuck _now_.

Jaskier makes another sleepy noise before opening up underneath him, and Geralt decides right then and there that it’s the best sound he’s ever heard, he wants to keep hearing them, wants to get more and more and _more_. He presses forwards, moving their mouths together and tracing the seam of Jaskier’s lips with his tongue before slipping inside, and no, _fuck_ , the noise Jaskier makes when he does it is the best sound. 

Hands come up to wind themselves in Geralt’s hair, tugging gently, and he pulls back only slightly to catch his breath and _growl_ , cutting off Jaskier’s soft chuckle with another searing kiss, their mouths fitting together as if they were made for this, made for each other. It’s warm and sweet and absolutely brimming with love and Geralt is again struck by the thought that he gets to have this, gets to have Jaskier.

It’s a good feeling.

They’re alone, they have no responsibilities – Ciri is safe with Eskel and Lambert in Vizima and Yennefer and Triss are gods know where on their own honeymoon, so there’s no risk of them being interrupted anytime soon. That’s also a good feeling, and Jaskier seems to realise it at the same time as Geralt.

“We’ve got no plans,” Geralt reminds him, ducking back down to press a lighter kiss to Jaskier’s lips, which start smiling again immediately, like they’re unable to stop.

“Oh no,” Jaskier deadpans, twirling a lock of Geralt’s hair between his fingers. “ _Whatever_ shall we do to pass the time?”

“Well,” Geralt drawls, slowly letting his hands slide down Jaskier’s sides and revelling in the way his breath hitches when his fingers slip under the hem. “I can think of _one_ thing we could do.”

Jaskier watches him for a second, then all but launches himself at Geralt, flipping him onto his back so that Jaskier is straddling his hips, mouth kissing every inch of skin he can reach. Geralt laughs a little when those nimble lute-calloused fingers press insistently at his hands, and he gets the message, sliding his palms over the skin of Jaskier’s ribs and chest and pushing the shirt up with them. 

The shirt goes up over his head and flying to a forgotten corner of the room and then Geralt has to stop, has to look, has to take in the breathtaking image of Jaskier over him, lightly haloed by the morning light with hair that’s somehow even messier now. He thinks he could stay here forever, just looking, but then Jaskier fucking _keens_ and dives back down to kiss him senseless.

And yeah, alright, that suits him just fine. 

He’s not sure how long they kiss, but at some point Geralt’s shirt is thrown in a different direction to where Jaskier’s had gone, and there are three new red marks on Jaskier’s neck that are far too high to be hidden by a shirt. He pulls back, slowly, looking up at the man above him who watches curiously.

Geralt’s lips curve into a smile – one that’s steadily becoming an almost permanent fixture. “I love you,” he says, and watches the way Jaskier’s eyes go wide even with having heard it numerous times before, how the bright ray of fucking sunshine that is his smile lights up Geralt’s entire world.

“I should hope so,” he quips, and Geralt knows it’s to try and lighten the moment, because they’re both still so irrationally scared that this is a dream, that this will be ripped away from them at any given point. He sighs softly and leans in to press another kiss to Geralt’s lips, then draws back slightly. “I love you too,” he whispers, and it’s faint and vulnerable but it’s more than Geralt could ever have asked for and it’s enough, for him, for both of them. 

Their lips meet again and all hesitation goes flying out the window, wrapped up in each other’s arms where Geralt wants to stay for _eternity_.

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand it's done!
> 
> I'd just like to thank everyone who stuck with me through these 100,000+ words of pining and Pride and Prejudice references, I've read each and every one of your comments and appreciated every kudo and I'm so thankful for all of you! Now that this is done I will be taking a short break - but don't worry, I have a plot idea and another fic ready to go with these two idiots - and what a surprise, it won't be an AU this time! But for now, I'm going to get back on my feet and finish my uni work with a bang. Thank you again for sticking with me on this one, it's been a pleasure!

**Author's Note:**

> Oh no.
> 
> Here I go again.
> 
> It's another Witcher AU, this time with Pride and Prejudice. God help me.


End file.
